


Dust, Letters and Love, maybe?

by Leoithne



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-12
Updated: 2014-09-10
Packaged: 2018-02-12 21:17:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 25,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2124996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leoithne/pseuds/Leoithne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is left alone in the flat by Sherlock, leaving him time to do some cleaning. Little he knows that cleaning may lead to interesting discoveries of which Sherlock won't be in the least amused. Johnlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Of dust-

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first attempt at a fanfiction. I do apologise in advance since I'm not a native speaker and it's not beta-ed (I'm my own beta reader), but I hope you'll enjoy it nevertheless. Comments (postive or negative) always welcomed and appreciated!

It was time for cleaning at 221B Baker Street. Sherlock had just bolted off, even forgetting John was there sitting on the chair, drinking tea. He had got a text message, mumbled something and disappeared for good through the front door. At first John didn't even blink. He thought that Sherlock would have noticed his absence by the time he called for a taxi, but it didn't happen. So, after about fifteen long minutes of waiting, the doctor finally got that Sherlock had just forgotten his existence. 

He muttered something similar to "bastard", but in fact he didn't care much. The flat was a mess, and tidying up with Sherlock around had never been the best idea ever. The first time he had tried to do that, his flatmate had gone into the "I-am-grumpy-I'd-just-play-the-violin-for-three-days" mode, which resulted in a very stressed doctor Watson since he wasn't able to sleep due to the constant screeching of the angry violin player.

But now Sherlock wasn't laying around and it was the perfect day to do some cleaning. The kitchen table was covered with lab equipments and the floor had some dark yellow spots of which John wouldn't really want to know the origin. Last time he asked the consulting detective for explanation, he discovered that he was dissecting a human liver. He thus learnt that it was better to keep the mouth shut. He gently removed the equipment from the table (if Sherlock were here, he thought, he would scream in agony like he was being tortured)and mopped it up, and put it in the same position he found it, knowing that the other man would notice his lousy attempts to do it correctly anyway. He then cleaned the microwave, threw some rotten tomatoes (how long had they had those tomatoes? He didn't even remember buying them and now they were just mould with some hints of red somewhere) straight from the fridge into the bin, tried to not look into a nice plastic box which seemed to contain human parts, and finally moved to the living room. 

He smiled at the it-had-never-been-so-clean-before kitchen and turned to the sofa. Moving the cushions was a good idea, obviously, but what was under it was beyond the word disgusting. There was dust that could have come to life, some very old nicotine patches, a thing that looked like some half eaten apple, piece of papers, a paper cutter so rusted it could have been centuries old. John took a plastic bag and threw everything carefully into it, then vacuumed every inch of it with some kind of resentment. Yes, he finally had the right day to do the cleaning he had been thinking to do for months. But how could Sherlock forget him at home like he had just done? Was he like those dust balls rolling under the cushions? The ones you sort of get attached to until you decide you had enough of them? He had thought he didn't care much, but now the anger was growing inside him. When he was done with the sofa, he tossed the cushions into place again with rage. But in the end he was satisfied with the result. The sofa didn't smell and look that horrible anymore. 

Now it was time for the bathroom and, cherry on top, Sherlock's bedroom. The bathroom, he recognized, was quite cleaner than the other rooms. Probably because Mrs. Hudson cleaned it more than anything else. Obviously she wasn't the housekeeper, but sometimes she pityingly agreed to clean at least the bathroom ("For everyone's sake", she had said) and make the bed. All this happened once or twice a week, and some other times she did the living room and the kitchen too. Nevertheless she had been really busy with her sister's hypochondria, which led her to assist the woman more than necessary, with the result she hadn't been at home much time in the last three weeks. She had got the time to clean the bath, though, so John had only to mop the shower and the bathtub, smirking at Sherlock's products. Expensive shampoo, checked. Very expensive soothing balm, checked. I-have-no-words-to-tell-how-expensive-this shower gel is, checked. He almost fainted the first time he went to the supermarket and asked Sherlock if he needed any body products. The other man told him that he didn't buy them at the local store and gave him a note with an address and the name of both the shampoo and the shower gel. It was a luxury boutique in central London. It took him a thirty minutes travel with the underground on a very cold winter day, it literally poured liters of rain from the sky and when he had finally reached his destination, he was wetter than he could've ever imagined. He thus stepped into the shop and told the shop assistant the two names. When he read the price on the register's screen, he felt his legs turning into gelatin. Had he just read 102 pounds? Seriously? He tried to mutter something and was sure that his heart skipped a beat. Now nine months had passed since "the accident", but he couldn't help but smirking still when he saw the bottles. 

When it came the time for Sherlock's bedroom, John thought about stopping. It had already taken him two hours for the rest of the flat and he felt rather tired. Plus Sherlock's bedroom was, in his thoughts, an intimate place for the detective and he felt like he was violating something sacred. He had only entered three or four times in the room and only with the detective by his side. Alone there? Never. The flatmate didn't like it and he respected his point of view. Although, the room surely needed some cleaning. He put his doubts and his tiredness aside, and stepped into it. The bed was a total mess. The sheets were scattered on the floor like he had slept there rather than on the mattress. The pillow was somehow stuck between the bed and the bedside table, and the lamp was dangerously hanging from it. What the hell did he do during the night? Did he fight battles with invisible people? Did he actually sleep at all? With a gruntled sigh he started to pick up the sheets from the floor and rearrange them perfectly. Was he becoming the housemaid? The thought sent shivers down his spine. Two hours and Sherlock hadn't come home yet, or called, or texted. Had the one and the only consulting detective in the goddamn world suddenly decided he didn't need him anymore? Rage rushed over his face. No, that wasn't fair. Sherlock was a prick. He knew that. But he also thought that he appreciated him in some way. So what was going on that morning? Maybe the job didn't require him. Maybe there was a perfect logical explanation for that. Obviously there was! But this didn't stop his guts revolting inside him.

He reached the bedside table and picked up the poor lamp, only to notice there was some paper sticking out from the drawer. He shouldn't take that. Private things. He really shouldn't. But the more he stared at it, the more he wanted to take a look. He moved to the other side of the room. No, really, he shouldn't. Curiosity kills. It's Sherlock, he'll know you read it, John. He found himself with the paper in the hands.

He glanced at the first one. _Dear John,_ it started and ended there. He put it aside. _Dear John, I want you to know,_ the second one ended there. The third one was a mix of unintelligible scribbles, always starting with Dear John. What was written below that, he could not guess. The fourth had a complete sentence, but nothing more: _Dear John, I'd like to thank you for the help you always give me on my job,_. There were other seven letters like that, eleven not even started letters. All he got from the reading was that Sherlock was trying to tell him something. The first thought, hinted from the fourth, was that they were letters of gratitude towards him and he felt reassured. He knew that Sherlock had problems with expressing his gratitude: never a thank you, never an appreciation for all the cooking, the teas, the cleaning even! So maybe he was trying to fill that void with letters. John appreciated it a lot. Anyway he couldn't understand why not a single letter was finished. He ruminated the thought for a while in his mind, and let it fall in the end. It was Sherlock after all and he knew he couldn't spot everything the man had in his great mind. 

He recollected the paper and put it in the drawer again, with care, like they were some kind of relics. Sherlock would know he had read them anyway and he smiled at the thought of a very angry and, at the same time, embarrassed Sherlock trying both to tell John to keep his hands off things and to explain how thankful he was for John being so helpful. Oh, it would be so funny. 

 


	2. Of Letters

Two o'clock p.m. 

Exactly five hours since Sherlock had left the flat and two hours since John Watson had discovered the letters.The door opened with a bang and Sherlock appeared in the room. John noticed he was sweating under his black curls, like he had run for a long time.

"Hello, John. Where were you this morning? I had a very interesting case. You would've liked it."

John stared at the detective for a while, trying to process what he had just said. He was puzzled and felt the anger growing stronger. So he really didn't notice him in the end. Oh God, he was so going to kill him sooner or later. Although sooner seemed a far better option.

"I was HERE, Sherlock. On the chair. Drinking my tea. Didn't you see?"

Sherlock blinked twice, and looked up to the ceiling as he was trying to remember something.

"Oh yes.", he finally said "Now I remember you."

"Have you just said that you didn't remember me being HERE?", John still purposely underlined the word "here".

"I might have noticed you, yes."

"Don't twist my words, Sherlock! Why have you forgotten I was HERE?"

But Sherlock didn't answer the question at all. He just seemed to mumble something to himself, and, after a minute of silence, he completely changed the subject of the conversation .

"Have you cleaned the rooms again, John?", asked the detective in a neutral, but annoyed tone.

The doctor snorted. Why was he still living with that impossible man? By discovering the letters he had even thought Sherlock was trying to be nice with him! What a fool he had been! Now, in front of his eyes, he had just simply admitted he had almost forgotten about John living there. And now, again, he had simply changed the subject. He was totally going to kill him.

"Yes.", he finally answered in a rough voice "But how is that more important than you forgetting me? My presence in the room? Me making your breakfast before you bolted off?"

"It was a very interesting case, John. Too interesting. I didn't have the time to notice…"

"That I was here???"

"Yes, John. But the case was totally worth it. A girl disappeared leaving apparently no trace, then three days later her cousin went missing too, and one day later she reappears with his cousin clothes on, no sign of him, though. It was so obvious that the two were secret lovers and tried to escape together, but somehow that night while she was asleep, the cousin disappeared and someone stole her clothes, so she had to wear her cousin's ones. The cousin had obviously been taken and killed by his father who couldn't accept such love, because he also had a crush for the young girl. And Lestrade couldn't see it! It took me only four hours to solve it, while he had had the case open for three weeks. Why don't people observe?"

"Like you.", John remarked, still angry for the whole matter.

"What?"

"I mean, Sherlock, since your highfunctioning brain seems to miss the obvious…LIKE YOU DIDN'T OBSERVE THAT I WAS HERE, this morning. In my goddamn chair, Sherlock!", that came out louder than he thought.

"I've already stated that it was a very intriguing case."

John waited at least for a sorry, but it didn't come out from the detective's mouth. It never did. Why would it change now? For those useless letter he had previously found? The reason why Sherlock couldn't finish them was, he eventually understood, that he had never wanted to thank him for his contribution. Probably someone (was it Mycroft or Greg? The latter seemed more appropriate) told Sherlock that he should show some gratitude or respect to John, so he had tried to write it down, only to discover that he couldn't even find the right words to express such absent feelings. No, Sherlock wouldn't thank him for anything, in the slightest. 

"Can't we just forget about that, ok?", the detective concluded.

John didn't agree at all with that conclusion, but he had no more strength for answering in a civil manner. He just shrugged his shoulders, knowing that probably it would happen again and by that time he wouldn't get away with it so easily, even if it had to be the last thing doctor Watson would do in his life.

Now the detective went to the kitchen and stopped in front of the table.

"John! I told you a hundred times to not touch my lab equipment!", he shouted.

"It needed to be cleaned! This flat would be an appropriate dump if it weren't for me and Mrs. Hudson!"

"I could do it by myself. Now it's a complete mess, don't you see?"

John barely gave a glance at the matter, instead he insisted on reading the newspaper. He started hearing some sort of noises from the kitchen behind him, followed by snorting, grunting, grumbling and other unrecognizable mutterings. 

One hour later Sherlock was apparently done, because the noises ceased all of a sudden.

"I need to take a shower.", sentenced the detective, going to the bathroom. 

The water started flowing seconds later, and the scent of his shower gel filled the room. John had to admit he liked it. It was a white musk scented one with a hint of pineapple, which gave it a rather exotic flavor. He closed his eyes, meditating on the events of the day. He had been left alone, had cleaned the rooms, discovered the letters and quarreled with Sherlock. That was a rather unusual day even for him. He had seldom been angry at Sherlock like he had been one hour before. The point was that he felt betrayed in some way he couldn't even precisely explain. Every case was him and Sherlock. He had saved his life before. But there was a lot of that man that remained a mystery to the eyes of John Watson. At last, but not at least, the letters. Those were still bugging the doctor. And Sherlock was about to go into his room.

The water flow stopped ten minutes later. He heard Sherlock's steps on the floor to his room. He waited almost holding his breath, but letting a little giggle escape his mouth. He couldn't hide he was nervous. Would Sherlock notice that he had read them? He had no doubt about that, but what would the man do after the discovery, that was another question. He imagined him noticing that John had touched them, read them and by doing it, that he suddenly remembered thst he was going to write them to thank John for his job. He imagined him coming back to the living room and saying he was sorry for that morning, saying that he, John Watson, was very useful during his cases and that he, Sherlock Holmes, sometimes was an asshole. No, Sherlock would never refer to himself as an asshole. But whatever the term used, John would be completely pleased anyway.

Some seconds later, Sherlock walked in the living room.

"John?"

John raised an eyebrow and looked at the man in his bathrobe.

"Yes?"

"You have cleaned my bedroom too.", it wasn't a question.

"Sure.", John answered nevertheless.

There was something in Sherlock that wasn't right. His eyes seemed to express no emotion and his voice was cold. It looked like he was staring at some criminal, not at his perhaps-friend John. John felt it in his guts. The man seemed to tremble too under his white towel. Drops of water were falling on the floor, but Sherlock stood silent, still eyes fixed on the doctor.

"May I ask you to leave this room, this flat, John?", he asked politely, but with a tone that seemed to cut flesh.

"Sorry, what?", John was confused.

"GET OUT OF THIS FUCKING ROOM RIGHT NOW!", the taller man indicated the door.

John didn't understand what was happening. He was completely at loss. Was it about the letters? But he didn't do anything wrong. Yes, he had read them, but they had no real content, so why that rage outburst? He stood up from the armchair, put down the newspaper and looked at his flatmate.

"Sherlock, whatever it…", he tried to speak.

"OUT - OF - THIS - ROOM!", the other shouted louder.

John was only able to walk in a state similar to trance outside the flat. He turned to Sherlock as soon as he was out of the threshold and stared at him for what seemed a century. Sherlock eyes were burning with rage, and at the same time he could feel the cold emanating from them. He suddenly glanced down, not able to bear the sight anymore. The door slammed right in front of his eyes, almost hitting his nose. He heard the detective moving quickly away from it and also slamming his bedroom door.

Mrs. Hudson peered out from her flat, a bit worried about "her two boys", as she called them.

"What's happening, John? I heard Sherlock screaming. Are you two having a little domestic?"

John didn't know what to answer.

"Sorry, Mrs. Hudson," he managed to mutter "I think it's no time for such a question."

And he went upstairs. Angry, puzzled, confused and with the strange feeling he really did something terribly wrong, even if he couldn't guess what.


	3. Of Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for the Kudos, and I sincerely hope that you're all enjoying reading this sort of a mess as I enjoyed writing it down! Thank you wholeheartedly for the support!

He had noticed it as soon as he had entered his room after his shower. The room had been tidied and the letters he was hiding in the drawer had been moved and, at a second glance, read. No. He felt his mind on the verge of exploding. John shouldn't have read them.

Now he was lying in his bed, eyes wide shut to the ceiling, his brain elaborating all the possible information. He had previously scattered all the letters on the bed. John had read them. The thought was still hitting him like a truck. He took one in his hands and looked at it carefully. _Dear John_. All eleven starting in the same way, all unfinished. He tried to remember how it started.

It had been four month before, on a nice summer day. He and John had just solved a case which wasn't even worth of their attention, but Lestrade had pleaded him to help Scotland Yard, because, as always, they had no clue of what was going on without his help. London was very hot at the time and John, unlike himself, had felt the need to refresh a bit. They had stopped to a street fountain and John had begun to drink a sip of water, before completely putting his head under the stream. When he had raised his head back up, his grey-blonde hair were completely wet and small streams of water were running down his neck. He had smiled to Sherlock and Sherlock had felt something twisting in his stomach. During the whole trip back to Baker Street he couldn't keep his eyes off John. He had thought he had gone mad. 

Even the evening had been weird, because every time he had met John's eyes, he had found himself glancing down and he had noticed his cheeks going slightly red. Luckily for him, John hadn't noticed anything different. 

He had passed the worst night of his life back then. He didn't know what was happening to him and he had the impression that it was something that he should've known, but that for some reason he didn't. In a flash, while he had been rolling continuously in his bed, under the sheets, Mycroft had come to his mind. 

_So sweet, Sherlock. Sentiment. Sentiment is a disadvantage, you know. Caring is a disadvantage. And you care for John Watson, don't you? Maybe more than you think. You like him, don't you?_

The answer to that question was simple. Certainly he liked him, he was a rather clever man, not boring and with a taste for danger. But what had that to do with what he was feeling?

_You love him, Sherlock. You don't get it, but you do._ The ghost Mycroft smirking at him.

The realization had struck him like a lightning. He had felt the sweat on his forehead and his heartbeat speeding up. So, was he in love with John Watson? The rational side was literally screaming no, but his irrational side seemed somehow stronger this time, and he had to admit he was definitely feeling something for his flatmate. 

He remembered that he had tried to rationalise and analyse it for three days after the whole "wet-head-smiling-John-Watson" affair. It wasn't love. It couldn't be. He had never been in love or, even, he had never felt attracted to someone before. He was married to his work. John wasn't gay. 

But all these thoughts had disappeared as soon as he had found himself at night in his bed. There he had had the possibility to indulge in sweeter thoughts, until he couldn't bear it anymore. He had to do something before going completely insane. He hadn't had the slightest idea on how to confess everything. He couldn't just walk to him and say that he thought that he liked him. So, three nights later, he had decided that writing him a letter would have been a great idea. At least he could finally be at peace with himself. But even with words it wasn't that easy. He had written  _Dear John_ , but he had had no idea of what to write after that. He had written eleven letters like the first. In the end he had realised he couldn't do it. 

Despite that, the real ending to the whole letter story had come one afternoon in the end of August. John had brought home another of his conquests: a tall blonde girl with big green eyes.

He had felt…ashamed. How could he have thought that John would fall to his feet as soon as he read one of his letters? John wasn't gay. That was it.

But he had kept the letters. A precious relic of the only time he had tried to express his feelings, the only time he had felt something for someone. After that experience he had decided to lock his heart forever. 

Now he was in the same bed as he had been four months before, but now John had read them. That wasn't supposed to have happened. He squeezed the letter in his hand. He felt so vulnerable. What was John thinking of him now? He was really angry when Sherlock had come back from Scotland Yard. Yes, he had totally forgotten about him, but John seemed more frustrated than the usual. Was it, then, because he had read the letters? Was he angry because Sherlock loved him? Was he, in his mind, contemplating of leaving the flat because he couldn't bear the situation, because he didn't love Sherlock and didn't want a high functioning sociopath in love with him? Did he tell it to someone, maybe? To Lestrade? That would be possible, more than possible. Were the two men now laughing at him, at his childish behavior? 

He felt naked. He didn't want that. How could he face John again, after all this mess? He would have to avoid him. 

He was angry. With himself for not having destroyed the proofs of his sin. With John for he was the principle of everything. With Mycroft for having been his consulting ghost that dreadful night. With the whole world for having invented such things as sentiments. He let out a sigh.

Sherlock found that he was slightly trembling, he had tears at the corner of his eyes. He would laugh at himself being in such a miserable state, but he was drained. All his strength gone.

At one point he fell asleep. He woke up about six hours later with a headache and a salty taste on his lips. Had he cried in his sleep? Had he murmured something and John came in? His frightened face turned to the door, but it was still closed as he did it. No noises from the other rooms either. He felt relieved. He got up and walked out of the bedroom for he was starting to see it as the cradle of his sorrow. The whole flat was silent, from upstairs John wasn't moving.

Despite him trying to delete his feelings for the other man, he had now to face the truth that they weren't gone at all. Buried deep inside his heart, maybe, but not erased. The same melancholy that had engulfed his heart four months before, was now gripping it with the same, if not more, strength. 

He took his violin from the shelf where it was resting and started to play a melancholic tune. He let all the sorrow, emptiness, love flow into the strings. After a while he grabbed a piece of paper from a notebook on the table and began to write the notes he was playing. One hour later the composition was ready. Its title was "The ballad of John". He threw it in the fireplace and burned it two minutes later. The flames dancing in the green-blue of his eyes and a tear escaping them. He had never felt so lonely before. He needed John and now he knew that he couldn't have him in any possible way. Was the man still laughing about how much of a child Sherlock was? He went back to bed, defeated.

 


	4. Of Anger

John sat at the bottom of his bed, staring at the door he had just closed behind him. Sherlock was angry with him for no apparent reason. Fuck, Sherlock. He, John Hamish Watson, should be the one angry. Fuck, Sherlock. But somehow he had the feeling he was missing something obvious in the whole scheme. He retraced the detective's movements after the shower. He had surely entered in his room, seen that it had been cleaned, seen the letters. Then he came back and intimated John to leave the flat. What was wrong, then? He knew that Sherlock didn't like people entering his room, he knew that he shouldn't have read those letters. But, really? They had no sense at all, and were even unfinished. He had thought that the detective would have eventually laughed at his discovery and thanked John directly for his job. That didn't happen at all. Instead that man had just become more mysterious to his eyes. Fuck him. Fuck his behaviour, fuck the day he had decided to become his flatmate. Why, why on the whole Earth did he have to live with the most absurd person in the goddamn universe? Fuck John Watson, even.

The drowsiness for all what happened during the day began to strike him. He felts his eyelids becoming heavier and the his strengths deserting him. He let his back fall on the mattress and crawled slowly to the pillow. He then surrounded his knees with the arms. The position was comforting, and few seconds later he was softly snoring.

He abruptly woke up some hours later to the sound of Sherlock's violin. It was dark outside, but yet it was not the middle of the night. The notes of the instrument were filling the air of the flat below and they reached his part of the building muffled. He kept an eye out and started following their gentle flow. Sherlock had usually played the violin in the event that his thoughts were tangled. In those cases the violin's strings had screeched hard, angrily. Now the sound was sweet, full of sadness. So, was Sherlock sad for something? Did he realize how he had stepped on his friend? No, that couldn't be. That wouldn't be Sherlock at all. The tune continued for about an hour since it had started and John completely lost himself into it, as if it was a call for him. At the end of the performance it looked like that very string of the violin had touched every string of John's heart, and he clearly sensed a tear down his cheek. He dried it with his hand and went back to sleep, not being able to do it for a while. He rolled in his bed, thinking whether he had to go downstairs and ask Sherlock if everything were alright. He decided not to. After all, he was still very angry with the detective.

The next morning he woke up more relaxed, but still with some anger and confusion lingering on. Worst of all, he had to go downstairs for the breakfast and he had no idea on how Sherlock would take it. His stomach rumbled. Whatever Sherlock would do, he was hungry. He hadn't eaten dinner and he had barely had a sandwich for lunch the previous day, therefore he could say he hadn't eaten anything worthy since last breakfast. He had to go downstairs.

He climbed down the stairs the most quietly he could manage, like he was some sort of burglar. The front door was shut still and for a millisecond John expected the detective to have locked it. Luckily he didn't. John stepped into the living room waiting for the shape of Sherlock Holmes to appear somewhere in the flat. But the man was nowhere to be seen. He glanced at his bedroom. The door still shut. So the detective was still in bed. It was very odd indeed, but he guessed, after what had happened, that Sherlock didn't want to see him, reasons still unknown for John. 

He prepared the breakfast for both of them anyway, knowing that Sherlock wasn't even able to boil an egg. Oh, the first time he had seen him trying to play with the pans in the kitchen! It had been a miracle that the flat hadn't caught fire. He let escape a little laughter. It had been so funny. Sherlock, fully dressed in his detective clothes, with a frying pan in his hand trying to cook some pasta. He hadn't even boiled it! He had just took the dried spaghetti, put them in the pan and splatted some tomatoes over it. Three minutes later the flat had been smelling like they had burnt some deadly poisonous experiment. The spaghetti had taken fire all of a sudden and Mrs. Hudson had rushed in with a fire extinguisher in her hand. John had been barely able to choke back tears from laughter that day. Yes, Sherlock might be a dick, but he admitted he could be quite funny when he left his "consulting detective" world and tried to act as a normal human being. 

The breakfast was ready in ten minutes. He ate it hungrily and left the Sherlock's one in the microwave. He had to go to the clinic for the morning shift that day, so that he hadn't time to see if Sherlock finally decided to show up. Although, before leaving the room, he noticed the burning smell coming from the fireplace. He hadn't noticed it when he had entered the room probably because he was still half asleep, but now his nostrils could perceive it perfectly. He kneeled down to see that there were ashes of paper in it. He could not guess what Sherlock had burnt to ashes, but some bell rang in his mind almost screaming "letters!". But no. There was far too little ash around for eleven pieces of paper. Whatever it had been, he couldn't possibly know. He sighed and left the room quietly, going upstairs to dress up for work.

He arrived at the clinic later than he expected only to find that he had already five patients waiting for him. There was one thing he was grateful for, anyway: all that work didn't give him time to brood over Sherlock. A continual coming and going of sick people due to the spreading of flu filled the morning, so that when his shift finished, all his anger and perplexities seemed to have soothed for good.

He was happy to return home, under the impression that Sherlock had already forgotten their disagreements too. 

John arrived home at one o'clock p.m. and immediately saw Sherlock doing something with his lab equipment. So, he had left his bedroom, that was good.

"Hello, Sherlock!" he greeted.

No answer came from the other man, who continued to look in the microscope. John tried to start a conversation, but all he got from the detective was an unintelligible murmuring twice. So he was still angry with him for, still, apparently no reason. 

The afternoon passed in the most awkward way. Sherlock spent all the time looking into the microscope, barely raising his eyes now and then, not uttering a monosyllable for the whole time. John stayed still in the armchair reading a book about which he had lost interest in after two pages. All he could concentrate on was Sherlock's breath and the movements of his little fingers on the equipment.

Two or three hours later (had it really passed so much time?) John felt the urge to leave the room and to take some fresh air outside. The atmosphere inside the flat was tense and he decided to go for a walk. It was a sunny autumn day and a soft breeze was blowing in the streets of London. He reached the park and sat on the first empty bench. Families with their children, couples and friends passed by and John couldn't help but thinking about all his failed attempts to a relationship. He couldn't even remember all of them! There had been Sarah, Gloria, Jeanette, Louise, Margaret and some others of whom he struggled to remember the name. All had failed because of Sherlock. And now had even their friendship, which he held so dearly, come to an end? Was it the end of the Sherlock&Watson-solving-murders-together relation? He shrugged. What he had done, he still didn't get it. And Sherlock, obviously, didn't give him the slightest clue.

He went back home for dinner. Sherlock was still at the microscope, as he hadn't moved for the whole afternoon. John entered the kitchen and went straight to the fridge.

"I'm starving, aren't you Sherlock?"

Again no answer. That was bad. At least he noticed that the detective had eaten the breakfast, since the plate was in the sink half covered with water. John decided that he would eat by himself anyway. If Sherlock didn't want to eat, it was not his problem this time. He couldn't always behave like a kid and expect the whole world to accept it. He grabbed a packed salad and sank himself in the armchair, silently eating it. All that he could hear in the room was the sound of his teeth chewing the green leaves and the swirl of the microscope handle. When he finished his dinner, he went to the waste bin to throw away the plastic container only to find that his breakfast for Sherlock had been thrown away. Obviously by the man himself. He sighed and turned to Sherlock.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?"

The detective raised his eyes.

"Nothing. I'm fine.", he answered in a neutral tone.

John stared at him. The first three words he muttered during the whole day were a blatant lie.

"You haven't eaten your breakfast, you have never raised your eyes from the experiment, you haven't spoken a word for the whole day. Sherlock, there's nothing "fine" in this!"

"I'm fine.", the detective repeated in the same neutral tone. "Now if you are so kind to let me finish my work…"

"Alright, Sherlock, I'm sorry.", John eventually said "For whatever I have done. Look, I'm sorry. Really."

He waited for an answer for a while, but Sherlock lowered his eyes on the microscope again, letting John speechless. Two minutes later he tried again.

"Is it about the cleaning?"

Sherlock didn't move a muscle.

"Because I think the whole matter it's about your room and me cleaning it."

Sherlock still didn't move.

"Is it about the letters?", John finally asked.

Sherlock lifted his head from the experiment and stared at John. By only observing the other man's eyes, John understood that the letters were really the trigger of the detective's anger.

"GO AWAY.", the detective shouted again.

"I've said I'm sorry, Sherlock. I didn't mean to…"

"GO AWAY. LEAVE THIS ROOM."

John did as the detective said. Clenching is fists nervously, he walked upstairs, he slamming the door this time. Fuck, Sherlock.


	5. Of Cases

The next day he had no will to get up and start a brand new day. All that quarrelling with Sherlock leading nowhere was consuming him to the bones. Now that he had finally understood that the problem lay in those letters, John knew he shouldn't have read them. But even with that knowledge he was still missing the point of it. They weren't scabrous things. They weren't intimate. It was not that he had read some super-secret file of the British government. And he had even considered them nice, being written to thank him. Still, he obviously missed something. The mind of his flatmate was more than a mystery. In the end he stood up and went down for breakfast. 

Sherlock was sitting on the sofa, eyes fixed to the kitchen. It was a matter of fact that at least he, John Watson, didn't want to argue with the detective anymore. No, he couldn't bear it. So, even if he had his doubts, he decided to let it go. It was Sherlock, he couldn't help but accepting it.

"Morning, Sherlock.", he yawned.

"Morning.", the detective answered.

That was surely an improvement, a huge one. Maybe Sherlock had decided to let it go too. He sighed.

"We've got a case.", he went on "Lestrade just texted me."

"Good, Sherlock!", John sounded overly enthusiastic.

But he was really happy. A case would mean that both of them would have their minds focused on it. And a case had always cheered Sherlock up, whatever the problem was. Then he remembered that two days before the consulting detective had forgotten him at home. Would he just go away and leave John alone again?

"May I come?", he thus murmured.

"If you want to.", again the neutral tone voice.

John was about to answer that he obviously wanted to, but he stopped, realizing it was pointless. 

The detective stood up and went to the door. John glanced down at his clothes. He was still in his pyjamas. 

"Sherlock, wait!"

"What's that? We need to hurry!"

"I'm in my…night clothes. Give me five minutes at least!"

Sherlock grunted and called for a taxi, while John bolted upstairs and got dressed in less than three minutes. It seemed that Sherlock had begun to talk to him again. Yes, there was still a hint of cold in his words, but it felt so good hearing his voice again that he didn't care much.

The taxi was already waiting with Sherlock inside when he finally stepped out of the front door. He locked it and jumped into the car. Sherlock probably had already given the address to the cab driver, because as soon as John had jumped in, they began to move towards a precise direction. Twenty minutes later they got off in front of an abandoned warehouse near the Thames. Lestrade was waiting for them at the entrance.

"Good morning.", he greeted them.

"What have we got?", interrupted immediately Sherlock.

"Double murder, it seems. Down here, follow me."

They had to climb down a very wet iron ladder on which Sherlock seemed to have no problems, while John and the DI struggled to not fall down and break their neck. The detective was so graceful and elegant in doing it, that John thought he had never seen someone so perfectly at ease in every situation before.

They eventually reached the floor. John and Lestrade were panting, but the detective was completely unaffected. John had seen him sweating before, but only after a ten miles run, and even in that situation, he sweated gracefully. He had wondered if his flatmate was some kind of superhero when they first had met. And even now he had his doubts.

"John!", he called. "I need your impressions."

John ran to Sherlock, who was already near the bodies. The two women were lying on the floor, both had their hair cut angrily. But the oddest thing was that they were both wrapped in plastic wrap, naked. They looked like two cocoons of a giant insect. John kneeled down to try to determine the cause of death. 

"They weren't stabbed, no sign of physical violence or torture, no sign of strangulation. They have been dead for at least two days. I don't see anything else, Sherlock.", concluded the doctor.

The detective glanced at him for a second, then started his personal analysis. He shifted from one body to the other quickly, observing, touching, reading the information only him could understand. John stepped back a bit and left the detective doing his work.

"How's it going, John?", asked Lestrade approaching him.

"Not bad.", John answered, hesitantly.

"How do you think he does that?", asked then the DI, lowering his voice "I mean, he climbed down that ladder like he was born on it."

"Don't look at me, Greg. I'm still trying to understand if he breathes or if he is a robot.", smiled John.

"I'd go for the second option. Have you ever seen him tired?"

"He doesn't need to sleep. He recharges his batteries during the night, you know. That's why the electricity bill is always so damn expensive!"

Both of them bursted in a sequence of giggles. John tried to restrain himself. They were on a crime scene, it wasn't really the right moment to do that, but every time the image of a Sherlock-Terminator-Holmes came to his mind, he started giggling again.

"Some silence would be marvellous!", the detective shouted.

Lestrade and John stopped abruptly and waited for Sherlock to finish his observation. 

"Any idea Sherlock?", inquired the DI.

"A very precise one. Give me four or five hours and you'll be able to close this case."

He didn't look at Watson and aimed directly for the ladder. When outside, Sherlock called a taxi and they started to visit a various number of pet shops around the city. John sensed that there was something wrong again, since Sherlock had stopped talking to him for a second time. He simply continued texting on his mobile, barely noticing the presence of the other man beside him. John struggled to follow him around, mainly because the detective legs were longer than his and it took John two of his steps to catch up with him. Usually Sherlock would have waited, now it seemed he couldn't care less. After one hour of running in this or that pet shop, the detective stopped all of a sudden and turned to a very panting John.

"Why are you following me?", he hissed in a whisper.

"Because I always do?", John didn't understand.

"I don't need you. Go home."

Then he turned away, leaving John astonished in the middle of the road. What the hell was happening now? He was sure he didn't do anything wrong this time. He called a taxi and went back home, but soon decided he didn't want to meet the detective when he came back and went to a pub down the street. He badly needed something to drink.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock couldn't sleep that night. He had just thrown John out of the flat for the second time in two days. He had admitted he had read the letters. He had tried to apologize, but Sherlock didn't want his useless, futile apologies. He had read the letters and he couldn't forgive him knowing what he now knew about him. He was still feeling betrayed, angry, confused more than everything. Since when had Sherlock let the emotions overrule his mind? 

He had tried to sleep, the letters still scattered on the bed, but the sleep hadn’t come. He thus moved to the sofa, the longest letter he had written in his hand. He read it under the lamp's light.

_Dear John, I'd like to thank you for the help you always give me on my job,_

That had been his best attempt. A very lousy one. 

Wait. 

He read it one more time. 

Wait. 

Maybe John didn't understand what those letters were about. 

He hadn't written anything on them at all. Yes, that was the case. John was clever, cleverer than the majority of people he had known in his life, but he wasn't Sherlock Holmes and his deductive skills were quite poor. He had overreacted after all. John had only read a series of unfinished letters which gave no clues of what they were about. He felt ludicrous. Why hadn't he realized it before? Why had he been so blind? Oh, yes. _Sentiment_. That was the answer. He had overreacted because he had thought that John knew he loved him. Those letters were the proof. But how could have they been? There were barely three words scratched on them. Relief. John didn't know.

Nevertheless, the whole question was still bugging him. John had looked in his drawer anyway, had skimmed through his privacy. That didn't work. At all.

He spent the whole night fixing an invisible point in the kitchen, lost in a continuous flow of thoughts. He mainly indulged in all the adventures he and John had together. How they had met, how John had saved his life without hesitation back on their first case. How John was useful to his life. How he was nice to him, even when the whole world probably wanted to punch him right in the face. How he cooked for him, despite him not being hungry most of the times. How he helped him cope with his loneliness. How he, Sherlock, loved him, John Watson. Because he did. There was no way back. 

The night passed without him noticing it. The day came and started with a buzz of his mobile.

_I’ve got a case for you. Two women murdered. – GL._

John entered the room in that exact moment. Since he didn’t know anything, he could look at him again, even speak to him easily. He said his hello to his flatmate.

But there was still resentment. His privacy had been violated and a bell in his brain kept on ringing. That bell bothered him more than he expected. Yes, John didn’t know. He had deduced it. But what if his deductions were wrong? His logical side was screaming that Sherlock Holmes hadn’t been wrong a single time in all his life. But this was sentiment, and his illogical side had just put a voice in his head: _he knows._ He wondered which of the two was right, and discovered he really didn’t want to know that, because whatever the answer, it would hurt him anyway. 

John had followed him to the crime scene and, while he was still analysing the two bodies, had started to talk with Lestrade. He kept an eye out to know what the two were talking about. They were rather distant from where he was, and Lestrade had lowered his voice at some point, so he couldn’t really figure out what the two had to tell each other. 

All of a sudden John and the DI had begun to laugh uncontrollably. What the hell were they laughing about? They were on a crime scene. Usually it was him smiling and the two of them shouting to keep his mouth shut.

The remembrance of the night of the John-Watson-knows-I-love-him struck: _Did he tell it to someone, maybe? To Lestrade?_ _Were the two men now laughing at him, at his childish behaviour?_

And the so-similar-to-Mycroft voice softly whispered: _He knows._

For what other reason would they have laughed, otherwise? Obviously it was about him. About his naïve behaviour. About those letters. John knew. 

He couldn’t look at John directly in his eyes again now. He felt drained for a second time and, although he knew that John would have followed him in his errands, he felt he couldn’t tolerate him by his side.

Sherlock had to fight an inner silent battle. He both wanted John to be there, because he loved his presence, and wanted him to disappear for good, because he had been laughing at his love for him.

He tried desperately to forget that he was there, he tried to distance himself by walking faster. But John Watson had followed, almost running to keep the pace. His concentration on the case vanished. He spent all the time looking at his mobile screen, tapping furiously like he was doing something terribly important. He knew he had to look for a pet shop owner. It was so obvious. But his brain couldn’t elaborate which one. All that thanks to John-fucking-laughing-Watson. In the end he shooed John away.

"Why are you following me?", he hissed in a whisper.

"Because I always do?", John didn't understand.

He obviously knew that John had always done that, more than nine months together had taught him something about the man. No matter the where, the when, the danger, he had walked beside him. But no. Now, he didn’t need a John-fucking-laughing-at-him by his side.

"I don't need you. Go home."

He glanced at the puzzled doctor in front of him, he then turned his back and walked away. Without him by his side, his brain started working again. Without him by his side, he felt hollow. The work came first, anyway. Thirty minutes later, he texted Lestrade.

_The pet shop owner at_ _94 Fleet Rd, London NW3 2QX – SH._

He didn’t even hear his mobile buzzing with the DI’s answer. He went straight home, hoping that John wasn’t there. His hope came true. The flat was silent. No sign of John. He cuddled up on the sofa and pretended to be sleeping. The time passed by. John returned home in the evening. By the steps he recognized that his flatmate was drunk. He heard him going straight to his bedroom. Perfect. Sherlock closed his eyes. That situation wasn’t working at all. And his phenomenal mind wasn’t able to tell him what to do.


	6. Of Seven Days In Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the kudos and for stopping by! Another chapter delivered!

Seven days had passed since John had come home totally devastated after he didn’t know how many beers. He had literally collapsed on his bed and woken up the next day with the worst headache of his life. He had to call the clinic and take a day off.

Seven days had passed since Sherlock had hissed his last words to him.

The sound of them echoed in his ears, as if they were the thing he held the fondest in his heart. And they hadn’t been nice words.

Since that day, the week had been a constant hell.

The first day, when he had needed to recover from the hangover, hadn’t really been that hard. He had spent the whole day in bed staring at the ceiling, eyes closed most of the time. His head hurt so much he had been barely able to keep them open for more than two seconds. He hadn’t had breakfast because his stomach had simply revolted at the thought of it, the same had happened with the lunch. But by the evening he had been starving. He had gone downstairs and though for a second of entering the detective’s flat, from where it hadn’t come a single noise for the whole day. Had Sherlock been at home, at least? He had suspected that, but he had investigated no further. Instead, he had walked on and bought something at the supermarket nearby. He had eaten it alone on a bench in the park. He had gone to sleep early. Still no sounds from the flat below.

The second day he had had both the morning and the afternoon shift at the clinic, so he had left his place early. He hadn’t eaten breakfast at home, but he had grabbed a snack from a vending machine in the underground. No text messages from Sherlock, no idea of what was up with him. One might have called the full day at the clinic a hell, but, in John’s eyes, it had been a relative heaven, because the real hell was at home. He was still puzzled about Sherlock’s anger of two days before, but he had expected it to have completely dissipated by that time. He had entered the flat carefully expecting to see Sherlock on the sofa, with his half smile, greeting him. He had been on the sofa, but he hadn’t said a word at all. He had simply stood up and walked to his bedroom, slamming it so hard that the flat had slightly shaken. John had noticed the detective hadn’t eaten any food for the past three days. He had walked to his bedroom.

“Sherlock?”

No answer.

“Sherlock, may I…?”

He had had no time to end the sentence, because he had clearly heard the sound of the key rotating in the keyhole. The detective had locked himself in. He had grumbled. If Sherlock wanted to act like a child for no reason at all, let it be.

The third day had been a nightmare. The clinic had charged him with the late afternoon shift, therefore he had had the whole morning and half of the afternoon free. He had tried to enter Sherlock’s flat again, hoping for some improvement. He had found the detective lying on the sofa, head turned towards the back of it. He had looked at him for a second and he had noticed that he was pretending to sleep. He had had to fight back the urge of yelling at him for behaving so childishly. Whatever John had done (was it still for the letters? God, but they weren’t that important and it had passed enough time!), he had had enough of that bullshit. Yet he respected Sherlock Holmes and had accepted his flatmate terms when they had decided to share the flat. Even the “I-might-not-speak-for-some-time” one. But it had never occurred to Sherlock to have been silent for so long before. John had sat down in his armchair, reading the newspaper and waiting for the situation to change, for the detective to move. It hadn’t happened. Four hours had passed and the detective hadn’t moved at all. At midday John had left the flat and had gone shopping to buy both his and Sherlock’s lunch. He couldn’t have let him starve to death. He had eaten his part in silence, Sherlock still cuddled up on the sofa, pretending to sleep, head turned away from John Watson.

“Sherlock,”, he had said “I am going to the clinic now. Here’s your lunch. Eat it, ok?”

Not a syllable had come out in response.

John had worked until eleven in the evening and had come home so tired he could barely keep his eyes open. As usual, he had gone into Sherlock’s flat before going upstairs. He was so tired he had forgotten what was going on with Sherlock. The detective hadn’t been on the sofa anymore, the bedroom door shut. On the kitchen’s table the lunch untouched. John had thrown it in the waste bin and had left to sleep.

On the fourth day he had started to be really worried about Sherlock. At ten o’clock he was still in his part of the building and he had heard no sound from the flat below. Not even a single noise. He had thus decided to step in again only to see that Sherlock bedroom door was still shut. No sign of breakfast, no sign of any other food consumed. 

“Sherlock,”, he had said approaching the other man’s room “please, eat something. You don’t want to talk to me, ok. But at least eat something.”

He had prepared some breakfast and left. He had needed to go to the bank and to the post office. The matter had taken two hours in total, because both the offices were packed with people. He thus had hurried to the clinic for his afternoon shift and hadn’t come home until eight thirty p.m. .

Sherlock’s bedroom door was still locked, the breakfast intact. He had sighed and decided to write to Mycroft about his brother. That wouldn’t have pleased Sherlock, but he didn’t know where to bang his head anymore.

_Mycroft, I’m sorry to bother you, but Sherlock hasn’t been eating for four days now and he hasn’t been speaking a single word either. I’m worried. Can’t you do something? – JW._

The answer had arrived two minutes later.

_John if YOU can’t do anything about that, no one can. – MH._

John had groaned. In his simplicity, Mycroft had stated the truth. Five minutes later another message had arrived.

_John, why isn’t Sherlock answering my messages? I need him on a case. – GL._

He hadn’t had the slightest idea on how to answer to that and he had let it drop. Ten minutes later his mobile had buzzed again.

_For the food, I’d suggest that you try with his favourite one tomorrow. I think it would work. – MH._

_And what is his favourite food? – JW._

_How am I supposed to know that? You should. – MH._

How was it possible that Sherlock’s brother didn’t know such a basic information? He had felt drained. He had spent the entire night thinking about it and as the morning had come, he had concluded that Sherlock’s favourite food was the Chicken Tikka Masala by the Rangoli Indian Restaurant. He had achieved this conclusion after having discarded about twenty other dishes and after having acknowledged that it had been the only course about which Sherlock had stated: “Delicious!”

So, on the fifth day, he had gone to work, worked until seven and had rushed to the Restaurant to beg them to give him a takeaway portion of the dish. It had taken him a good quarter of hour, when, eventually, one of the owners, moved to pity by his continuous pleadings, had agreed with it. John, pleased, had come home with his prey.

He had found Sherlock on the sofa again, greeted him without expecting an answer, and started to clear a section of the kitchen table. He had reheated the Chicken and had divided it in two plates.

“I have bought this for you, Sherlock. I hope you’ll like it.”, he had said.

Sherlock had miraculously stood up and sat on the chair at the table, near John. But he hadn’t uttered a word. He had eaten silently, never raising his eyes from the plate. When he had finished, he had gone in his bedroom again, locking it.

John hadn’t been happy about that, but he had felt relieved because, at least, Sherlock had eaten something. 

The sixth day he had done the same. He had gone to work, done some shopping in the late afternoon and got another Chicken Tikka Masala from the restaurant. Sherlock had eaten that too, still not a single word, though. 

Seven days in what he would have described as hell had passed.

But now John couldn’t stand the situation any longer. He wanted his annoying always-talking-too-much detective back. He wanted to solve it for good. He had thought about it during the sixth almost-sleepless night and he had come out with a solution that might have, in his personal opinion, worked.

Hadn’t the “affair” started with those goddamn letters? So why not writing one to Sherlock? It seemed the perfect idea.

That morning he heard Sherlock leaving the flat for the first time in a week. He didn’t know the reason why, but he guessed he had something to do. Maybe Lestrade was desperate, maybe Mycroft summoned him. He went downstairs looking for a piece of paper where to write the letter down. He started and rewrote it four or five times before being fully satisfied with the result. He thought of leaving it on the sofa, but he then aimed for the bedroom. The door was locked and he had to push it in under the door. 

He strongly hoped that it would finally restore the peace in their life, for the sake of both of them.

 


	7. Of Letters, again

Sherlock’s week had been a similar, if not worse, nightmare. He had needed to fight hard inside him. A battle between his brain and his heart, he had understood. Where his brain had told him a dozen of times that John didn’t understand a thing, his heart had yelled louder that those laughter had been aimed at him. At Sherlock Holmes, the I-have-no-friends-I-am-married-to-my-work detective. In love. With John Watson. 

Every time the other man had entered the room, all the feelings he had never felt before hit him stronger than he could’ve ever possibly imagined. He didn’t want to see John, didn’t want to hear him, didn’t want to feel his presence there. And at the same time he wanted it. He had felt emptied to the last drop of his strength.

Seven days later he had to leave the flat because he desperately needed some fresh air. John had been kind, really kind to him the previous two days and he didn’t want his pity. The only consulting detective in the world could go on even without John Watson. He could go outside without him, he could buy food by himself. He didn’t need John’s pity. Especially after what it had happened. Yes, John knew. For what other reason would he have been so kind with him, otherwise? He had bought him food, his favourite one. Obviously he was pitying him for his childish love. He was pitying the emotionless detective who had fallen in love. He could live without John Watson. Yes, he could.

All these thoughts accompanied him in his aimlessly errands through London. He had gone out at seven, hoping to not meet his flatmate. He had now walked for more than twelve hours without stopping or eating or drinking. And yet he wasn’t physically tired, but he was mentally. He called a cab, gave him the address and one hour later he was at home. He hadn’t gone that far after all. He had almost walked in circles around his flat.

No sign of John anywhere. He had felt he couldn’t have another dinner with him, so luckily for him, John was nowhere to be seen in the flat. Maybe he had gone out. He couldn’t care less. He sighed and headed for his room. He unlocked it and stepped in. He didn’t immediately notice the piece of paper lying on the floor, but eventually he saw it.

_To Sherlock._

He tsked and lay on the bed, eyes fixed to the other side of the bedroom. He didn’t want to read it. His letters were still in the drawer, but now he had locked it. He stayed motionless for some indeterminate time, before turning to the door and getting up. He didn’t want to read it, but he sensed he had to do that. Better: he wanted to do that. God, why sentiment was so complex? He sighed.

Sherlock picked the two pieces of paper.

_Dear John,_

It started like that. Why the hell did it start like that?

_I'd like to thank you for the help you always give me on my job,_

What? Wasn’t it the beginning of HIS letter? Was John mocking him? He kept on reading.

_really. I appreciate it very much. I hadn’t had any occasion to thank you for the brilliant job you do, but I think that it’s now time for you to know it. Actually, I didn’t want to write this letter at all, but Lestrade had suggested it. So here it is, John._

_I know I have been a terrible flatmate during all this time and I’ve never shown a single hint of gratitude, for everything. You cook, you do the housework, you do the shopping. And I’ve never said a thank you. So here it is, John._

_I’m no good at this, sorry, so the letter ends here. I hope you understand._

_Thank you for everything,_

_Sherlock Holmes_

That was the first paper. Sherlock tried to comprehend it, but he found it quite impossible. What was John trying to do writing those things? He turned to the second page.

_Sherlock,_

Oh, now it was addressed to him.

_I am sorry._

Yes, he should be. He put Sherlock in this mess, John. Obviously he should be.

_Listen, I know I have betrayed you. I shouldn’t have taken those letters in the first place and I shouldn’t have read them._

Useless apologies. He should have stopped before doing it. But he went on.

_I didn’t mean to invade your privacy, I didn’t mean to piss you off. But I am a human being. I was curious and I should’ve known that you don’t like people invading your privacy._

_If I think about it now, I remember how flattered I was of your attempts…_

What? What? He was “flattered of his attempts”? Sherlock’s heart skipped more than a beat.

_of your attempts to tell me how thankful you are for my job. I thought it was nice of you, since you never demonstrate your gratitude to anyone. I was flattered for having been the first you had thanked for something. But if you didn’t completed those letters, if you didn’t give them to me, there should be a reason, I should’ve known. I’m still missing it. Because, you know, a thank here and there doesn’t hurt at all. So I’ve decided to finish one for you. Yes, I know it’s silly, but I really would’ve liked to read it written by you. So I tried my best to think what you were going to write in it. I hope I got it right somehow._

_Now, please, Sherlock, accept my apologies. This silence, this situation is killing me. I know that most of the times I’m shouting at you saying to shut up. But I want the noisy Sherlock back._

_I promise I’ll never put my nose into your privacy again. Please, forgive me for having done that. And forgive me now for having rewritten your letter in your stead. Just know that I have appreciated the gesture nevertheless, even if the letters were unfinished. Thank you for having tried to thank me. Sorry again for having betrayed your trust. I hope this will sort the things out._

 

_A more than sincerely apologetic,_

_John H. Watson_

 

_Please talk to me again._

Sherlock read and reread the letter. Once, twice, twenty times. He lost the count. He analysed every single word, trying to find the smallest hint that John had understood they were supposed to be love letters. Not a single one.

Not a single one.

He hadn’t understood at all. What was Sherlock thinking when he had assumed that? His brain had told him the truth, and he had listened to his heart. Why, why on Earth had he done that? Oh, yes. Again. Sentiment. How the hell could all the people in the whole goddamn world live with sentiment? It had so darkened his reasoning, he couldn’t believe there were people out there still wanting to have emotions.

He was finally free from his fears. They could go back to their normal-we’re-just-friends relationship without his heart being broken. He felt relieved. More than relieved. And he promised to himself to never ever let his feelings obfuscate his mind. He was back to normal. He could look at John without feeling exposed. That was the most important thing. He had got what he had wanted, what he had so desperately wished for. John would never know what had really happened, and he was satisfied with that.

But in the dim light of the night a question still haunted him: that he had got what he wanted, not what he needed. 

He discarded it. He needed to erase all those stupid emotions. He was the one and only consulting detective in the world. He was a high functioning sociopath. He was better than sentiment. He could do that. Still, the thought didn’t leave him until dawn.


	8. Of Happiness and Jealousy

Two months later all had gone back to normality. Sherlock had forgiven him the day after he had written the letter. John hadn’t really expected it to work, but somehow it had done. He was very glad of that. It had taken a few days anyway to adjust back to complete normality, because he had feared to do something wrong and upset the detective again. It hadn’t happened and all was good now. 

The work at the clinic was going quite well either. It gave him money for the rent and enough time to follow Sherlock on the crime scenes. Lestrade had called the detective four times during the last two months and, as usual, Sherlock had proved himself very useful for Scotland Yard. Four killers had been delivered to jail. Yes, staying with Sherlock Holmes was amazing.

And then Anna had appeared in John’s life. He hadn’t expect it to happen. He remembered perfectly their first meeting.

It had been a hard day at the clinic, one of the worst he had ever had. About ten people, a whole family, had come there screaming that they had contracted some deadly illness at their aunt’s house, because they couldn’t stop vomiting. He had tried to calm them down for two hours, explaining that probably it was a simple food intoxication. They hadn’t listened a single word. Three hours later the clinic’s staff had finally calmed them down and the noise had ceased. 

He thus had the chance to notice a little brunette in the waiting room. She was smiling at him and found her pretty attractive. 

“Anna Clarke”, had called the nurse.

She had stood up and came in his room.

“Hello, doctor.”, she had said shyly. 

He had visited her. Nothing important, really. She had been having a bad cough for some days. When she was about to leave the clinic, he had asked himself whether he had to invite her out. She had anticipated him.

“By the way, you’ve been great.”, she had said.

“What?”

“The family. You were so calm even in dealing with those riotous people.”

“Oh yes, thanks. It’s not really my job…but…”, his mouth had suddenly dried.

“May I invite you out for dinner, doctor…?”, she had asked.

“Watson. John Watson. You may call me John.”, he had blushed.

“John. So?”

“So what?”

“Me and you, dinner.”

“Oh, yes. Sure.”

They had started laughing together. It had been nice. Anna was nice. They had had a perfect evening and some other dates had followed the first. 

Now, two weeks later, they were properly dating and John was happier than ever. He was in the bathroom adjusting his burgundy tie, ready for an evening with Anna. He was whistling cheerfully.

“What’s going on, John?”, Sherlock asked from the other room.

“I’m happy, Sherlock. Really happy.”, he shouted.

“For what? There have been no crimes.”

John sighed.

“I’ve got a date. Don’t you remember?”, he said.

“Oh, yes. That girl. And how does that make you happy?”

“Sherlock, you can’t understand. I like her. I really like her. I’ve told you. And when you like someone, and she likes you back, you’re happy. It’s easy.”

Sherlock muttered something John didn’t understand.

He exited the bathroom humming a love song and stood in front of Sherlock, who was sitting on the sofa. 

“How do I look?”, John asked his flatmate.

“Nice, John.”, answered the other in a flat tone.

Sherlock then turned the head to the window with an annoyed look on his face. Sherlock didn’t really like sentimental things.

“Well, I’m going. I’ll probably be late. So, see you tomorrow.”

And he went out.

John had dinner with Anna in a Thai restaurant. It was perfect. She was perfect. He had explained her that his flatmate could have been a bit annoying and she had accepted it. They had even laughed about Sherlock’s eccentricity. 

After the dinner, they decided to walk for a while. They had been walking for thirty minutes, when John’s mobile rang. He took it from his pocket and looked at the screen.

_Come. Baker Street. Immediately. – SH._

He ignored it and put the mobile back. Three seconds later it rang again.

_It’s important. –SH._

He grunted and put the mobile back. It rang again.

_Emergency, even. – SH._

John looked at the screen and snorted. Why Sherlock had to ruin all his evenings out? 

“Sorry,” he muttered “Anna. It’s Sherlock. He needs me for something. I have to go. I’m really sorry.”

God, no. Not now that he had found a nice girl. Not now, Sherlock. It was his brain screaming. He didn’t know how it always happened. He could simply forget about the messages and go on with his evening. But no, he had to go to Sherlock. Emergency, maybe it was serious.

He apologised once more expecting Anna to insult him.

“Don’t worry, John.”, she said “You have told me how he is sometimes. I think I have to accept it. I’ll call you tomorrow, love.”

“Aren’t you splitting up with me?”, John looked confused.

“Why should I? I like you. Accidents happen.”, she smiled.

And she kissed him on his cheek. God, she was perfect.

He took a taxi to 221B. He arrived twenty minutes later only to find Sherlock lying on the sofa.

“Don’t tell me you’ve just ruined my date for nothing.”, he yelled.

“But it’s an emergency, John!”

“I don’t see any emergency here, Sherlock!”

“Yes, there is. Can I borrow your phone?”

“W-what?”

The detective was staring at him innocently.

“You’re impossible, Sherlock! I’m lucky that Anna is so nice and still wants to see me!”

He moved to him and let his mobile drop into the detective’s hands. God, how he hated him! He left the room and went upstairs, thinking about the whole matter. At least Anna wasn’t mad at him, he was certainly a lucky man to have her. And about Sherlock…he hated him wholeheartedly. No, he didn’t. It was Sherlock after all, he couldn’t hate him. Being angry with him? Yes. Hating him? No. He let it go.  

* * *

Two month had passed since John’s letter. Everything had gone back to normality and was really satisfied with that. The friendship with John had been restored and he had been able to lock his feelings for his flatmate deep inside, waiting for them to disappear completely. 

Lestrade had needed him on four cases, which he solved with no struggle at all. It was going all perfectly ok. Until one bloody day.

John had returned home from the clinic later than usually. He hadn’t even entered Sherlock’s flat, but had gone directly upstairs and had gone out a few seconds later. He had waited for him to return. Probably he had gone shopping, he had said to himself. But John hadn’t returned until midnight, whistling while climbing the stairs to his bedroom. That meant one thing: he was dating someone.

Confirmation had arrived the next day, during their dinner together. He had prepared it whistling happily for the whole time. Sherlock had to stop it, it was driving him mad.

“What’s going on, John?”, he had asked “You look overly happy.”

“I’ve got a date.”, John had answered “Her name is Anna and she’s…fantastic.”

Sherlock heart had stopped. His mind had gone blank. He had felt like someone had gripped it with a hand and cut through it with nails. Better: like John had taken it in his own hands, thrown it on the floor and splatted it under his soles. He could’ve quite imagined the scene. What was that now?

_Jealousy,_ had whispered the familiar Mycroft voice in his head.

For the entire evening John had talked only about that damn Anna. He had pretended to listen carefully, but he had actually escaped into his mind palace, seeking refuge from all the “She might be my soul mate”, “You should meet her, you’ll like her”, “She’s probably the best thing it had happened to me in a very long time.”

He had fought strongly to not think about it. She couldn’t be John’s soul mate. Sherlock was sure he wouldn’t have liked her at all. She wasn’t the best thing in John’s life. 

He had wrongly thought that he only needed to lock his feelings for John away, that they would have disappeared as the time passed by, but he had discovered it wasn’t so easy. John had been very happy in those days and he had desperately tried to be happy for him. But it hadn’t worked. 

He had discovered that it hurt every time John mentioned her. 

He had learnt to fake his smile every time John said how he was happy.

He had learnt to pretend everything was perfectly fine.

And he was doing a good job. John hadn’t suspected anything.

But he was tired of playing that game. 

The last two weeks had passed in constant fear that John might have left him for the girl. If that had happened, it would have been the end of him. 

Worst of all, he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t want John to go out with Anna, but at the same time he didn’t know how to stop it. He had ruminated for days and days, until the solution had come to his mind.

It was evening and John’s was getting ready for his evening out with the-best-woman-on-Earth. That had been her last nickname, given by John himself to her the previous day in a conversation with Sherlock. He came out of the bathroom fully and perfectly dressed for his girlfriend. Sherlock had a fit as he saw him. 

He was wearing his grey suit, a white shirt and Sherlock’s favourite burgundy tie. For an instant he wished that John had dressed like that for him. He could smell his perfume too. It wasn’t very intense and suited him. 

“How do I look?”, John asked him.

“Nice, John.”, he answered.

But he found that he couldn’t look at him, knowing that he was going out with another person instead of him. He turned his head to the window. John went out, but he had a plan.

He had somehow remembered how all John’s relationship had ended. Most of the times it had been his fault. He had texted John to come home immediately or he had even shown up at the cinemas, at the restaurants, at the theatres where John had been with his date. It had always ended with a John following him and a very angry girlfriend who had split up with John the next day. So it was this simple in the end. He had just to summon John at home, while he was out, and… problem solved.

Yet, he still didn’t know how he could explain John his feelings for him. That was the next problem, but now he had to solve the first one. A girl less for John Watson, more John Watson for him. That would work.

He waited for an hour and a half, considering his knowledge on the matter (John had had numerous girlfriends during the previous months, none of whom had lasted more than two weeks and it had always taken him about one hour and a half to eat dinner) and then he texted him.

_Come. Baker Street. Immediately. – SH._

He waited some seconds, knowing that John wouldn’t have gone away for a single message. He needed to be the most annoying possible.

_It’s important. –SH._

_Emergency, even. – SH._

He knew that John would have come by now. Twenty minutes later John entered the room, angry. He had expected that. But he knew John would have forgiven him in the end. What he hadn’t expected was John saying that Anna hadn’t dumped him. 

As soon as the doctor left the room, he crawled into bed. No, he couldn’t bear it. He needed to do something. He needed to do it for good. He wanted John. He needed John. He needed John to be his.

A short time before, all he had wished for had been to forget about his feelings for John. Now he couldn’t deny them anymore. He didn’t want to deny them anymore. Because he now knew he couldn’t survive the possibility of John’s loss. He definitely needed to do something for John.

If only he knew what. 

_Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side._

A voice in his head.

He couldn’t care less. Fuck his beliefs. 


	9. Of Brothers

When Sherlock opened his eyes the next day, he was still struggling with his feelings. He really didn’t know what to do to get the things right and he had no one to rely on for such unanswered questions buzzing in his mind. He had only a friend, and that friend was John. Who would answer his questions, when he couldn’t obviously ask them to John?

He stared intensely at the ceiling, hands jointed together lying on his chest. He needed to gain John’s interest. He needed to do something. God, he really needed to do something. His brain wasn’t working as it should have. His brain had never failed him, now it was blank slate. He turned to the window. 

He heard John going out, talking on the mobile while crossing the front door.

“Yes, Anna, I know you’ve already told me I don’t need to apologise. But I do anyway. Yes. Yes. Of course I’d like to go to the cinema this evening! Yes. Perfect. See you this evening. Bye!”

Still that damn Anna. 

He needed to get an advice from someone. Lestrade? No, no. He would have told John in no time. Mrs. Hudson? Oh dear God, no. Who else did he know? Oh, yes. Oh, no. Oh, yes. The consulting ghost. The constant voice in his head. _Mycroft_. He knew he would regret it fully, but he was the only one who could help him right now. He had had two or three relationship in his past years and he surely knew how to handle those situations, opposed to Sherlock’s total lack of knowledge on the subject.

He texted him, feeling somehow filthy and extremely embarrassed.

_Mycroft, I need to talk to you as soon as possible. – SH._

The answer arrived about three minutes later.

_I’m busy. Can’t now. – MH._

Sherlock knew he would regret what he was going to write now even more.

_Please. – SH_

Mycroft didn’t answer for a time that Sherlock would have sworn had expanded to infinite.

_Ok. Office. In thirty minutes from now. – MH._

Finally.

Sherlock got dressed and hailed a taxi to Mycroft’s office. He arrived precisely thirty minutes later and went in. He was feeling nervous, too nervous. But he had to do it. For his mind’s sanity. 

Mycroft was waiting for him behind his desk and was looking curiously at his brother. Sherlock gave a glance at the papers he had on it and said something regarding them to break the ice. His voice came out like he was made of two different entities. He heard himself pronouncing the words, but he felt someone else pronounced them. Was he about to faint? It was almost the same sensation.

“Mitä talo tarkoitta?”, he said, voice slightly trembling “Are you still having troubles with Finnish?”

Mycroft stared at him.

“Sherlock, don’t waste my time.”, his brother snorted “I have no time and you didn’t come to me to talk about how much I am skilled in the Finnish language or not. Tell me what you need and then go, I have a lot of work to do.”

Now that Sherlock had to explain it, he started to though it hadn’t been the best idea coming to Mycroft, but it was already too late. He sat on the chair in front of him. Mycroft still waiting for him to speak.

“I need an advice, Mycroft.”, Sherlock finally said. It had been harder that he had thought.

Mycroft gawked at him. Sherlock never asked him for advice.

“About what?”

Sherlock gulped and cleared his throat.

“Sentiment.”, his voice barely audible, him blushing in many shades of red.

“What?”

“Sentiment, Mycroft. You heard me, don’t pretend you didn’t.”

“Yes. Yes. I heard you, but I cannot believe my ears. Sherlock Holmes, my brother, comes to me for advice and it’s even about sentiment. What should I expect by tomorrow? United Kingdom moving to the South Pole? Our Queen abdicating in favour of her dog? I should write this glorious day on my journal!”, he scoffed.

“You don’t have a journal, Mycroft. And I knew I shouldn’t have come.”

Sherlock got up and turned to the door, ready to leave.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock.”, apologised immediately Mycroft “I didn’t mean to sound harsh, but, you know, it’s quite an event.”

Sherlock frowned and inquisitively looked at him.

“Alright, Sherlock, I stop now.”, his brother said. “But weren’t you the one who was always remarking that sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side?”

“I’ve changed my mind.”

Sherlock stated simply, before adjusting on the chair again, fighting hard for not to leave. He stayed only because he cared about John so much he could bear his brother making a fool of him.

“And since you have more experience on the matter…”, he went on.

“You came to me.”, his brother finished.

Sherlock nodded.

“Well, go on, Sherlock.”

The detective cleared his throat a second time, trying to find the right words, which seemed to slip away.

“If you did like someone…and wanted to care for this person…”

“And that person would mean John Watson, wouldn’t it?”

Sherlock sighed and nodded again, blushing violently. His mouth was starting to go cotton dry.

“Now if you let me continue…”

“Do as you please, Sherlock.”

“If you did like someone…and cared for this person very much…”, yet he hadn’t dared to say John’s name “what would you do to make this person understand it?”

“Oh, Sherlock. So sweet of you. Caring is not an advantage. Sentiment is not an advantage. You know that.”

Hadn’t they had this conversation before? His Mycroft consulting ghost was more similar to the real Mycroft than he had thought. But he had enough of his brother’s playing around. Having come there for advice had been the worst decision of his life. He snorted, annoyed, at the man.

“Ok, enough. I go now. Thanks for nothing, Mycroft.”, he hissed and turned his back.

As he was approaching the door, Mycroft started to talk more seriously.

“But if you really want my advice, you should show John that you really care for him.”

“But I care for him.”, Sherlock answered, puzzled.

“It’s not enough to care. As I said, you should show him that you do.”

“How?”, he sounded so desperate on this.

“People who like another person try to make this person happy when they are together. They try to understand their interest’s needing, try to please them doing things they know they’ll like.”

Oh, that was it. Sherlock hadn’t really thought about that. Obviously he hadn’t. He had tried to erase his feelings for John, he had never tried to conquer his love before.

“As for John, Sherlock,” Mycroft went on “because we both know we’re still talking about him, don’t we? Well, in this case I would suggest some apologies now and then, some thanks wouldn’t hurt either, maybe cooking for him too would do. You always let that poor man do everything by himself.”

He stared at his brother, eyes wide shut. His head already spinning with a thousand thoughts of what John would’ve liked. But as soon as he started to do that and started to feel a bit more confident that he would succeed, the worst struck him.

He glanced down and felt a shiver running on his spine.

“He isn’t gay, Mycroft.”, he murmured, emptied all of a sudden.

“Yeah. He stated it a lot of times. Too many, in my opinion.”

“What that would mean, Mycroft?”

“I don’t know precisely, to be honest. But listen. Back then you two had barely known each other for a day and he had moved in with you the next day. The day after that, he saved your life by killing that cab driver. He cooks for you, he cleans the house, follows you everywhere, even when you behave like a drama queen. He is still there, no matter what you’ve done to him, he’s still there. If that doesn’t mean a thing to your eyes… Maybe he only needs some hints by you. And we both know you aren’t good at it.”

He felt his heart warming immediately. Those were the words he was somehow hoping for and they had come from the least person he had expected them to. He looked confused at Mycroft.

“See, Sherlock?”, his brother smiled warmly “Caring is not an advantage. But John had somehow made you better. I think caring for him is not that bad.”

Sherlock still gave a puzzled glance to his brother, not knowing what to say. It had probably been the most familiar conversation with him in a very long time.

“Thanks.”, he managed to utter.

The other man didn’t answer, but smiled back.

Sherlock went home, now he had a plan to organise. A plan to show John Watson how he cared about him. 


	10. Of Courtship

John wasn’t at home yet when Sherlock came back. He was probably still doing his morning shift, so Sherlock had all the time to think what to do for his doctor.

He calculated that that day he would have come home by seven p.m., because he knew that he went shopping on Tuesdays, since Sherlock had once remarked that the freshest fruit and vegetables arrived at the supermarket on Tuesday. Therefore he thought of making dinner for him. He discarded the idea some time later. He couldn’t cook. Yet he could order some sushi at the takeaway. John liked eating sushi. It was perfect.

As he had so well considered, John came home 3 minutes past seven with two plastic bags full of food for the week to come.

“Hello, John.”, he greeted as the doctor entered the room.

“Evening, Sherlock.”

The gratitude. Showing gratitude. He was almost forgetting to do it.

“And thanks.”, he said.

“For what?”, asked John perplexed and amazed nevertheless.

Sherlock was impressed by the reaction he had just obtained from his flatmate.

“For the shop, obviously.”, he told him.

The other man raised an inquiring eyebrow, but said nothing. John placed all the shopping in its right place quickly and then rushed away.

“Sorry, Sherlock, can’t stop.”, he shouted while already at the threshold “Me and Anna are going to the cinema.”

“But I’ve got sushi…”, Sherlock murmured sadly.

“That’s good! Enjoy it!” , he smiled to the detective. “See you tomorrow then!”

Sherlock glanced down, his whole body trembling. It was going all so well until that wet blanket. He called the takeaway and cancelled the order. He didn’t want to eat at all. He immediately thought of giving up, but he recognized that he couldn’t do that. No, he had to try again. Now that he had started, he couldn’t go back.

The second day of his plan started rather unusually. During the night he had decided to go to the cinema with John. He hated going to the cinema, he couldn’t stand it. But John liked it and he had been happy to go there with Anna the previous day. So Sherlock had deduced it would have been a good idea. John was away the whole day, having both the morning and the afternoon shift. Sherlock had barely met the doctor at the kitchen table, before he had left for work.

Now he had to understand what kind of film would be the best for John and deduce what he had watched with the woman. It took him longer than he had expected. There were about 50 films on screen during that period in London. So first he had to find the cinema where they had gone, which had required him the whole morning. When he finally got the location, he had to guess the right film.

He was on a date, so possibly it had been a romantic film, but Anna seemed to love action films too by the way John had described her to him. Sherlock had never met her and that made everything a little more difficult, not counting that most of the time John spoke of her, he didn’t listen at all. But he knew that he was the only consulting detective in the world, and that he could find it. Yes, only Sherlock could do that.

After one hour of calculations and deductions, he found the film they had seen. He was sure it was that. A romantic, but quite adventurous, comedy. Yes, perfect film for a romantic date. But not really the kind of film that John liked. He was more into science-fiction and historical films, but he would never take a girl to see it. In the end he booked two tickets for a new science-fiction film in a cinema nearby. He was really pleased with himself.

John had come home at eight, the film started at nine.

“John!” he shouted.

“Mmmh?”, the man answered.

“I’ve got two tickets for the cinema tonight. There’s that new science-fiction film you’ve been talking about.”

John gave him a puzzled look again.

“Sherlock, I’m too tired to go to the cinema tonight. I had a horrible day at work and all I need now is a good sleep until tomorrow.”

He thus ducked in his armchair and yawned. At one point he turned to Sherlock, who was still standing up in the kitchen, his heart a little broken again.

“And…cinema? You hate cinema! Wasn’t it dull?”, John questioned.

“But you like it, and I thought…”, Sherlock said, lowering his voice.

“Yes I like it. But I’m really tired tonight. I’ll go straight to bed now.”

And he stood up and left the room.

That hadn’t worked either, like the previous day. Oh well, he had gone too far. He needed to think what to try the following day. He couldn’t quit. The conquering-John’s-interest had become a ten on his cases’ scale.

On that Thursday John worked in the morning, so he came home relatively early. They had nothing to do and Sherlock tried to make the atmosphere more comfortable for his flatmate.

“Would you like a cup of tea, John?”, he asked kindly.

“It’s rather nice of you to ask me, because it’s quite cold outside and tea would be just…”

He suddenly stopped and stared at Sherlock.

“Wait…have you just offered to make me a cup of tea?”

“Yes.”, answered Sherlock innocently “What’s wrong with that?”

“Uh. Nothing, really. But it’s the first time you asked me. It’s…weird.”

Sherlock retained himself from smiling the brightest smile he had ever smiled. So John Watson was pleased of the change. That was good.

“If you don’t want me to…”, he said anyway, fearing it would go too far otherwise.

“No, no. I appreciate it, Sherlock. Thanks.”

Sherlock prepared the tea, which resulted a bit too watery. But John laughed.

“That’s why you never do it. I think it’s the worst tea I’ve ever had!”

Sherlock could sense a fit in his guts. He wasn’t even able to boil some water and make tea. How could he be able to conquer one’s man heart? His facial expression should’ve shown his state of mind, because John immediately corrected himself.

“No, sorry, Sherlock. I didn’t mean it. It’s good really, considering it’s your first time…it’s good! I’m sure you’ll improve”, and he smiled.

Even if the tea was horrible, he had made John laugh and had made him happy with that small gesture. John was right: he was improving.

On the fourth day it was John’s day off. Sherlock had thought about going walking around London and, maybe, trying to confess him what his heart had inside. But his plans broke before even starting.

John entered the kitchen triumphantly saying he was going to be away the whole day, because he and Anna were going to see an art exhibit in central London. The detective almost yelled at John to not go. God, this was harder than he had imagined.

Saturday was a rather good day at the beginning. John had the afternoon shift and in the morning he wanted to do some food shopping for the following week. Sherlock had offered to go with him.

“I’ll go shopping after breakfast, Sherlock”, he said “do you need anything?”

“I’ll come with you, John.”, he answered calmly.

Sherlock thought that John’s jaw had just disarticulated. He was looking at him extremely astonished.

“W-what?”, John muttered.

“I’m coming with to do some shopping. You seem surprised. I don’t understand the reason why.”

Obviously Sherlock knew that the reason was that he had never ever gone shopping with him before. He was so pleased that he was noticing his little attempts, his heart jumped in the chest and he felt he was feeling better.

Sunday was the best day of them all, even if it didn’t end like Sherlock had wanted.

John had another day off for reasons Sherlock couldn’t get. He had worked more than needed, or something like that. And Anna had gone visiting her parents. Perfect, just perfect. He had thus decided to go for a walk with him.

They went to the park nearby, where usually, on Sundays, played an amateur cricket team which John loved to watch. Even if it was late autumn, it was a rather warm day and the team was there. There were two matches that morning and the two men enjoyed them together. At midday John was hungry.

“I’m starving, Sherlock!”, he smiled at the detective.

In the reddish glowing light of that beautiful day John’s blue eyes glittered joyfully and Sherlock lost himself into them for a while. John noticed.

“Sherlock, are you ok? Have you gone in that mind palace of yours?”, John smirked.

“Eh?”

Sherlock came back to Earth.

“No, sorry. I was thinking.”, he answered.

John was staring at him doubtfully.

“You surely are weird these days, Sherlock. Are you trying to hide something from me? Because all this kindness by you is, well,…weird.”

Sherlock’s heart made a jump so high that it seemed to reach his throat. He inhaled and exhaled two or three times trying to calm down. So his attempts hadn’t passed unnoticed at all. They were walking side by side at the moment, and Sherlock’s mouth went dry at the occasional contact with the other man’s arm. It was the time for Sherlock to tell him. Yes. He gathered all his courage.

“Listen, John, I…”, he almost whispered.

“Look, Sherlock, whatever it is, I like you being less annoying with me. Except you are doing this because you have murdered someone or you’re going to start a collection of human bones in the living room. If that’s the case, being nice won’t work. I won’t forgive you for something like that even if you’re nicer than before.”

Now it was his time to stare at the doctor completely puzzled.

“No, John, I…”, he tried once more.

John’s mobile rang in that precise moment. God, the worst time ever. Sherlock wanted to take it in his hands and smash it on the road, so that it couldn’t interrupt him anymore.

“Hello, Anna!”

Oh no, not her again.

“Yes, yes, yes. Of course, dear! Yes, why not? Obviously!”, John rejoiced at her voice.

Sherlock felt his heart breaking one more time, this time it seemed like it had been made of glass and all the pieces were travelling to and fro in his whole body, making everything ache. He shut his eyes for a second. He had been so close.

John hung up.

“Anna and I are going to try a new Greek restaurant this evening.”, said a smiling John turning to Sherlock, who was struggling to hold back his tears. “What were you going to say?”

“Nothing important.”, answered Sherlock, barely the strength to walk “Really, nothing important.”

They returned home, Sherlock completely silent.

* * *

 

John Watson was getting dressed for the evening with Anna. They hadn’t planned it and the call at the park had been completely unexpected. He was happy to go out with her. Although he couldn’t deny that the behaviour of his best friend in the last six days was still bugging him. A lot. Sherlock had never been so nice before. Some days their living together had been almost unbearable for John. The detective had been moody, lunatic, bored to the point he had shot a wall, had come home covered in pig’s blood. Those days hadn’t been the best. But even the normal days with Sherlock Holmes weren’t normal at all. He had never shown any sign of affection, never said a thank you, never cooked, never made anything that could’ve made their cohabitation better.

He thought and thought about the horrible tea the detective had made, but at least he had tried. He had never done something like that before (yeah, except that time with spaghetti, but that was because John had almost challenged him to do that). No, he had never done something nice just for the purpose of being nice to the others.

If the man hadn’t been Sherlock Holmes, he would’ve thought that he was showing him some affection. But the man WAS Sherlock Holmes and for him affections, sentiments, emotions didn’t work at all. He grunted, hoping that Sherlock wasn’t about to do something stupid, for which he had already started to apologise trying to be nice with him. Nevertheless, the whole matter looked rather suspicious. But he hadn’t the deducting skills of his friend and really couldn’t guess what was going on inside that brilliant mind of his.

He sprayed a bit of perfume on his wrists and he was finally ready to go out.

* * *

 

Sherlock heard the front door slam as soon as John left for dinner. He had been so close. He was about to confess his love for him. But no, John had to give his version of Sherlock’s mind. But no, John’s mobile had to ring. He closed his eyes, hands jointed together in front of his eyes, like he was praying. Except he wasn’t praying. He was obviously analysing.

He couldn’t bear it anymore.

He had spent six days trying to make John understand, but he hadn’t.

He had spent all his energies on that.

Now he needed a better solution, a definitive one.

It had all started with those damn letters, he remembered.

Maybe it was time to write the one he had in mind a long time before.


	11. Of The Letter

John arrived home earlier than he had expected. He was tired, too tired even to describe it. He crawled upstairs and into bed. He started snoring as soon as his head hit the pillow. Despite the tiredness, at four a.m. he woke up.

He turned on his right side to go back to sleep, but as soon as he did it he saw something lying on the other pillow. It took him two minutes to realise they were two pieces of paper. It took him other two minutes to realise it was the same paper he had used to write his letter to Sherlock. It took him over ten minutes to understand he wasn’t dreaming. Why were there two pieces of paper lying on his pillow? There wasn’t any when he had come home.

By the way they were folded, so perfectly, yet so gracefully, he understood that Sherlock had placed them here. He tried to deduct how he had done that. Having been a soldier had taught him to open his eyes at the minimum amount of noise, so that it was quite impossible that every other man had been able to enter without having woken him up. Yet, Sherlock wasn’t every other man.

He sat on the bed, took the papers and turned the light on.

_Dear John,_

_Do you remember those letters you have found in my drawer, about two months ago?_

Obviously he remembered them, obviously.

_I’m sure you do. And I’m also sure you remember how much angry I was with you, because you had read them. I was really angry. But I’ve never explained you the reason why. You thought that I was mad at you because you had put your nose in my privacy, but it wasn’t true. The reason why I was that furious is because I thought that you had understood what those letters were about._

_You’ve even written me that letter trying to finish the one I had started and never had the courage to end. But you were wrong, John. Totally wrong. I wasn’t trying to thank you for all the things you do for me. Well, I started like that, because I didn’t know what to write for a start, but they weren’t gratitude letters, not at all._

_They were supposed to be…love letters. Yes, you read it right. And yes, aimed to you._

_Still now, I don’t know how I’m managing to write this down, my hand is shaking and I feel I can’t go on for much longer, but I’ll try. You didn’t expect this coming, did you?_

_But it happened. It’s so simple and yet so hard, so hurting, and yet so beautiful. I love you, John. No matter how I tried to hide my feelings, to wait for them to disappear. They never did. I could hide them in front of your eyes, but I couldn’t hide my heart from them._

_I don’t know precisely how it has begun. It wasn’t love at first sight, but slowly, but steadily I felt something growing inside of me. It didn’t bother me much at the beginning. I thought it was a normal accustoming to the new situation of having a flatmate. I had never had a flatmate before you, you know?_

_Anyway, soon I started to find your company admissible, then I found it nice to have you around, then I discovered how my world without you would be hollow._

_I realised I loved you on a summer day. You may not remember it, but I’ll never forget it in my entire life. It was a very hot day in London and you had just put your head under a stream of water from a fountain. You were sweating and you had to refresh, you said back then. And as soon as I saw you with wet hair, streams of water down your neck, I felt the world starting to spin around me, so much I found it difficult to place a step before the other._

_I didn’t know what it was. You know, sentiment is not my field at all. I struggled, I thought, I analysed. But the truth was that I loved you._

_I had never felt such a feeling before. One may say I’d never felt anything in my life at all. And it was true, before you. But all of a sudden there was you, caring for me, trying to understand me, saving my life._

_I thought I could be alone for the rest of my life, I didn’t need friends. Friends were useless. Yet I dared to call you “friend”, because that’s what you are to me. A friend. The only one I have ever had and surely the only one I could ever love._

_You’ve been always there for me. You have suffered my moody character, my endless blabbing, my silences more than anyone else. You’ve complained, yes. Yet you had always a smile for me, you risked your life for me. And I have no words to express how grateful I am to you for that. I have no words, for sure. I have this feeling that expresses it all. “I love you” is my thank for you._

_You have made my unbearable life bearable, more than you can think. You have made me feel. The emotionless detective has feelings because there’s you, by my side. You have made everything you touched better, every day a day worth to live._

_And I know you aren’t gay and I know that you have no romantic interest in me at all. I’m sorry for writing all these things to you, but I couldn’t bear to hold them inside anymore. I want you to know, John, that you are the best thing that has ever happened to me in my entire life. I was so alone, so lonely, and you came to rescue me. You, doctor John Watson, have eased my pain, have made it cease even._

_And I know that you’ll be grateful for this letter, because you’re always too kind. Yet I know that you’ll struggle to live with me from now on. So if you ever want to leave 221B for this reason, I won’t stop you. I’m ready to face the consequences of this letter._

_No, that’s a blatant lie. I’m not ready at all. But I’ll accept whatever decision you will take, even the most painful one: to live without you, John. It’s impossible, but I’d do it for you. Don’t pity me. You know what a dick I am. You’ll surely live a better life without me._

 

John noticed that at this point some of the letters were blurry, teardrops had fallen on them.

 

_It’s slowly becoming painfully hard to write this down. I don’t even know how I managed to write this much. My hand is still shaking and my so brilliant mind is failing to go any further. I’ll stop here._

_Everything I’ve written here it’s the truth. I’m not doing this for some sort of experiment of mine, as you might think. I’m not doing this because I want to tease you. I’m not doing this for any other reason in the world._

_I’m doing this because I wanted you to know that my love for you is real. I wanted you to know…better, I want you to know that I love you much more than you can think of. I love you so much it hurts. That’s all._

_I love you._


	12. Of Questioning

John found himself shaking after the reading. His mind went blank and he sensed that if he had stood up, his legs wouldn’t have held him in place.

Sherlock was in love with him, that was all his brain could process, if at all. His heart was beating faster and he was struggling to breath. Most of all his mouth had gone cotton dry and he clearly felt a painful lump down his throat.

He breathed, inhaled and exhaled. Yet, the most automatic thing of the human physiology had become the hardest. It seemed the whole oxygen in his room had disappeared.

The letter was the most beautiful thing John had ever read in his life. He didn’t expect something like that to happen at all. Now, more than two months later, he finally understood why Sherlock was so angry with him for those letters. Now he had the possibility to understand what was going on in his flatmate’s mind.

He felt sorry for the detective, because he knew that it should’ve been really painful for a man like Sherlock to express his feelings that way.

He thought about the last week, and everything became neat. Sherlock had been desperately trying to make him understand that he loved him. And he hadn’t understood it. Yet, rarely he could understand what was going on in the detective’s mind. He could’ve never imagined something like that. Not at all.

Sherlock had been the one who once had said that sentiment was a chemical defect found in the losing side. Yet, he had just confessed to love John Watson.

John’s head couldn’t rationalise any of the thoughts that were spinning inside.

He was certainly flattered by the fact he was being loved by the most brilliant mind he had ever the chance to meet in his life. He was more than flattered to know that he was the one who had destroyed Sherlock’s protective wall, the one who made the detective feel.

But Sherlock had written the truth. He wasn’t gay and didn’t feel any attraction towards his flatmate at all. Then why was he so affected by Sherlock’s letter? But no, he wasn’t gay.

Yet, a voice in his head didn’t want to quiet down.

He had always been there for Sherlock, he had risked his life for him, he had been ready to die for him, even.

He remembered the first time they had met, when Sherlock had followed the cab driver and had almost took the goddamn pill to prove he was clever. As soon as he had understood what was happening, John hadn’t hesitated for a second to run after him and to shoot that man down. Mycroft had been right: so loyal, so soon. And that other time when Sherlock had been attacked by the Chinese gang? He hadn’t hesitated that time either. He had gone straight to the other man ready to kill him if he hadn’t let Sherlock alone.

And there had been the confrontation with Moriarty at the swimming pool. He had been more than willing to die for Sherlock, if that would’ve killed the criminal. And he had had no doubts when Sherlock had pointed the gun at the bomb.

And there had been that other time when they had chased a criminal down an alley, and there he was standing, bullet ready to hit Sherlock. He had literally thrown himself in front of the fugitive, almost taking a bullet right into his heart.

Sherlock counted more than himself for the world’s safety and he had been willing to die to save his life. But that was because Sherlock was his friend, his best friend. Everyone out there would do everything for their best friends. It was not that different. Yes, he cared for him because the detective was his friend.

He remembered that he had been jealous when Irene Adler had flirted with Sherlock. But it had been because he had always been rather possessive with his friends. He wasn’t a man that had had many friends in his life, so he had always considered his closest ones almost as a private propriety. Sherlock was no exception in that.

Yes, that showed him that everything was completely normal and that his relationship with him was nothing more than a friendship.

Yet, the voice in his head didn’t want to quiet down.

He remembered all the nice times they had had together.

Once, after a case, Sherlock had decided he wanted to go to the pub with him. John had never seen the detective drink before that evening and he had understood why. After only two beers his flatmate had lost his brilliant mind completely. John had laughed for three days after it had happened. Sherlock had scorned him for the whole time, yelling to shut up. It had been one of the funniest moment in his whole life.

And there had been the other time when they had gone to the cinema for the first time. Sherlock had guessed the whole plot before it had started and had even guessed almost all of the actors’ lines right. How he could’ve done that, he still didn’t know. John himself, who at the time had thought he already knew how amazing his flatmate was, had been totally agape. That man had never stopped to impress him in one way or another.

Another day they had gone for a London tour, because Sherlock had promised him that it would’ve been different from every other guided tour. And it had been. Sherlock had brought him to the most famous crime scenes of historical crimes. And Sherlock had been an amazing touring guide. He knew everything about every crime that had been committed in the city in the past centuries and John had been totally fascinated by his knowledge.

Still: he was only his friend, the best friend he had ever had, the best he could wish for. Even if he was an annoying prick, he admired him with all his heart. But that was all.

Yet, the voice in his head didn’t want to quiet down.

He had to admit that Sherlock was a very handsome man too. Tall, slim, with those blue-green eyes and those curly black hair standing out from his alabaster skin. But nothing important compared to a woman. He loved women. He had had so many relationships with many good looking women, he loved the way they laughed, the way they dressed, the way they moved. Yet he had to admit that no one moved as gracefully as Sherlock Holmes.

But no, he obviously preferred women. He had never ever thought about a man. He had no interest in them at all.

He remembered the two dates with Lucy. She was a beautiful woman with long dark brown hair. They had gone out to the restaurant one evening, and to the cinema the second one. But Sherlock had texted him in the middle of the film and he had bolted off without any doubts.

And he remembered Margaret. Short blonde hair, an infectious laughter. Their relationship had lasted for two weeks. Then one evening Sherlock had literally materialised in the restaurant where they had been having dinner and had told John he needed him on a case. John had protested, but he had eventually gone with the detective.

All his relationships had ended, in one way or the other, because of Sherlock. But he wasn’t angry with him. Had someone asked him if he regretted having followed Sherlock, instead than staying with his girlfriends, he was sure he would have answered that he didn’t regret anything at all.

Yet, now there was Anna. She was perfect. She understood him completely, they liked each other and he had had the best times with her during the last three weeks. He was really glad that he had met such a fantastic woman. And then why had it happened what it had happened the previous evening?

He remembered it more than clearly. It was the reason why he had arrived home early.

They had gone to the Greek restaurant. The evening had been perfect. They had chatted about everything. When the dessert had arrived, Anna had asked him something.

“John, this evening is perfect, really. You are perfect.”, she had said.

“Thanks.”, he had blushed.

“So, I was thinking about a thing lately…”

“What thing?”, he had asked, wondering.

“Well, I have a nice flat that is big enough for us. And I’d like you to move in with me. Would you like to, John?”, she had asked, happily.

John had thought about it for a millisecond.

“It would be great…”, he had started.

“Fantastic!”, Anna had said, thrilled.

“It would be great, Anna, really. But I’m not leaving 221B. Sherlock needs me and I don’t want to leave him alone there. Not this way. Not so fast.”

Anna had stayed silent for a while, before starting to sob. John hadn’t know what to do. He had felt sorry, but he didn’t want to leave his flat. He didn’t want to leave Sherlock.

Yet, that didn’t mean that he was in love with him.

Lost in these thoughts, three hours had passed. The alarm clock marked ten past seven. He had the morning shift and he needed to get ready for the job. He folded the letter, slowly rereading it while he was doing so. It was so sweet, so lovely, so heart-warming. He placed it in his coat pocket, without realising it.

He went downstairs, not knowing if he could face Sherlock or not. But the detective was still locked in his room. He knew how hard it should’ve been for him to write that letter. Before exiting, he involuntarily went near his flatmate’s bedroom door and placed a hand on it, almost caressing it.

No, he didn’t feel any attraction for Sherlock at all.

Yet, the voice in his head didn’t want to quiet down.


	13. Of Dust, Again

It was time for cleaning at 221B Baker Street.

Sherlock had just passed the worst night of his life. Yes, he used to say that the worst night in his life had been the one in which he had discovered his personal love interest for John Watson. But nothing, nothing could be compared to the letter’s night. He had written it with the sensation that every cell of his body was hurting more and more as he wrote it down. Everything hurt, but mostly his heart. He had never felt such pain before. Physical pain? He could endure tons of it, no problem. Sentimental pain? That was just like cutting his flesh with a very sharp knife and let him bleed endlessly.

He had cried. Yes, the great Sherlock Holmes had cried. The only consulting detective in the world had cried. The high functioning sociopath had cried. A man in love, had cried. At the thought of John going away from him after his letter. At the thought of the emptiness he was certainly going to face. At the thought of John’s refusal.

Nevertheless he had finished his letter, even if he had written the last part almost brainlessly. Exhausted, he had gone up to John’s bedroom, sneaked in without making a single audible noise and left the two pieces of paper on the pillow. John was snoring on his left side and he had indulged a bit on the man’s sight before returning downstairs. He had thrown himself into his bed and waited patiently for the day to start, ready (not really, but he was trying to be) to face everything that would have come.

At around seven he heard John entering the flat. He trembled. He heard him approaching his bedroom. He lost his breath and his heart beat faster. No, he wasn’t ready to face the consequence of his letter at all. But John walked away, aimed to the clinic. Sherlock sighed in relief.

He spent some other time in bed, frozen still. What was he supposed to do? He knew that John would have refused him. He knew that too well. That day, that precise day would have probably been their last day as flatmates. He thought of a way to make John smile in front of his eyes for one last time. What would John Watson appreciate? What had he always complained about?

Oh yes, cleaning. Sherlock had never cleaned the flat. He had only made mess, mess and more mess. Experiments on the table, human body parts in every corner, boxes full of old files lying on the floor.

Yes, there was one thing that would make John astonished and happy at the same time: Sherlock finally doing some cleaning.

From that moment on every part of Sherlock’s brilliant mind focused on the task. He left aside all the negative thoughts that were coming from the idea of John leaving him and gave all himself in what would have amazed John one last time. He needed to be perfect on that. He couldn’t indulge in negativity.

He started from the kitchen. He had to face the chaos there. The table was completely covered with stills, pipettes, two microscopes, bacterial cultures. John had complained over and over again about how they should eat on that table and that, in John’s opinion, was quite disgusting when Sherlock had just finished experiments on human parts. Sherlock hadn’t cared much before, but now all those things needed to disappear for good.

He took every single object carefully and placed it in the cupboards in the kitchen. Fifteen minutes later the job was done. He then went straight to the fridge.

John had complained about the various parts of human bodies that he had found now and then in it. Sherlock had put some tongues in a hermetic box some weeks before and it was now time to get rid of them. He took a plastic bag and threw the box in it. He also noticed the fridge was almost empty. He should also do some shopping, he thought.

Fridge and table were free of things that would make John yell at him. He mopped everything painstakingly. One hour later (yes, it had taken him all that time) the kitchen was clean, so clean one would have mistakenly taken it for new.

He moved to the living room. Here there was a hell of a chaos. Newspapers, files, some things so old even he couldn’t recognise what they had been. He took one of the boxes and started to throw everything in it. His brilliant mind was fighting silently, telling him to stop, they were cases, they were important. But his heart screamed louder that John was more important than everything else. He threw away everything, not regretting it at all.

He cleaned the sofa, removed the cushions and vacuumed every corner of it. He then moved to the table and John’s armchair. If he paid attention, he could still smell John’s perfume on it. It was a sweet thought and he did its cleaning more carefully than had done with the rest of the flat. It was John’s favourite place to sit on, after all.

One hour and a half later the living room was shining bright. Every object was in its right place and Sherlock started to be pretty satisfied of himself. John would be proud of him.

He moved to the bathroom, then to the bedroom, and cleaned them with the most determined effort ever. He had to impress John. On his cases’ scale that was over a ten. Seeing John happy was immensely better than a quadruple murder in a locked room with no windows.

Five hours later the whole flat smelled of fresh. All was perfectly in order.

He had to sit down for a while. He wasn’t tired, no. But he felt his head being rather dizzy with all those “I want to amaze John” thoughts. He had lost himself while cleaning and his concerns about John’s reaction to the letter had drifted away from his brain. But now, motionless on the sofa, they started to haunt him again, harder if that was even possible.

More than a year had passed since they became flatmates. More than a year in which Sherlock had become a happier person. Not a better one, he thought. Even with all his wonderful qualities John couldn’t make Sherlock a better human being. He was still annoying, still lunatic, still horribly egocentric. But happier. Happier, yes. And for Sherlock that was the best thing that could’ve ever happened to him. That happiness, that John, were about to disappear for good. He sighed. The noises coming from the road barely reaching his stream of thoughts.

By looking at the light seeping through the window, Sherlock deduced it was about four p.m. Where was John? He had his morning shift, he should’ve been home by now. What if he couldn’t stand to see Sherlock again? What if he had already decided to never come back at home? Pain engulfed his heart. He trembled.

No. He shouldn’t wallow in his grief. John would come home, he said to comfort himself. He was totally sure of that.

Plus he should have done something else for John.

He should have arranged the dinner for him. At first he thought of calling the Chinese takeaway John liked, but it was so predictable it wouldn’t have amazed the doctor at all. He needed to cook for him. The problem was that he had no idea on how to do it. He shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. Wasn’t he the most brilliant mind of the planet? He could learn how to do it in no time!

He took his own laptop and started looking for recipes on YouTube. One hour later he had decided what he was going to cook. He had learnt fast. For one more time in his life he was very happy to have his mind helping him so much, even if it was still bugging him with more than a pessimistic scenario where John wouldn’t come home at all, leaving a very alone and destroyed Sherlock with his dinner.

He shooed those thoughts away and called three supermarkets to get the best ingredients for the recipes he had in mind. Another hour later the shopping arrived home.

Sherlock started to cook like it was the most important experiment in his life. He had learnt everything perfectly and remembered every single video in details, but doing it was a total different problem. He struggled for a while with pans, scales, recipients before getting it right. But when he got it, nothing would’ve stopped him from preparing the best dinner John Watson had ever had.

He started by preparing a wonderful tiramisu for dessert, then he prepared veal au citron for the second course, some appetizers and in the end he prepared some linguini with clams as main course.

It was seven p.m. when Sherlock had finally finished to cook, yet there was no sign of John anywhere. Sherlock was becoming really nervous and his head started spinning so much he had to sit to avoid falling on the floor after passing out.

As the clock marked the minutes, he felt his hands sweating more and more and the lump in his throat becoming heavier and heavier.

At seven thirty he heard the front door opening. He listened carefully. The steps were those of John Watson. Everything around him turned silent. Time dilated so much in the detective’s head that it seemed to him that it was taking John one hour or more to do every step. He could only hear the beating of his heart and the sound of John’s shoes hitting the floor, blood pumping in his veins faster than he could’ve ever believed. The rest didn’t count. Sherlock wanted to run away, but his legs refused to move. He waited and waited. The less than thirty seconds to come upstairs had become an eternity.

Sherlock was sure he was about to die.

Then John entered the flat.


	14. Of Coming Back

John arrived at the clinic and the secretary told him he had already a patient waiting. The woman had a bad back injury which troubled her and John tried to focus on it. No way. 

Sherlock’s letter was still standing in front of his eyes like he had his eyes fixed on it still. Every word was already sculpted in his brain and, during the trip to the clinic, he had reread it mentally almost ten times, still unaware of its presence in his pocket.

The second patient came after the first. John tried to focus a second time, but the attempt was worse than the first. He didn’t even understand what the patient had because, when she was explaining her symptoms to him, John had just gone in his own mind palace. He could see Sherlock clearly in his head, sat on his bed, pen in hand, writing the letter. He could see the city lights backlighting his face, the black curls falling gently on his neck, his whole body shaking a little.

He came back to reality as soon as the patient yelled at him because he was gripping her wrist so fiercely that her hand had almost turned purple.

“What the hell are you doing?”, she screamed.

“I was…”, no point in explaining “sorry.”

“You hadn’t listened a single word I said. What the hell of a doctor are you?”

“No, sorry. I’ve listened…”

But the woman had already stood up and left the office. She was right indeed. He hadn’t listened a single word. All his head could concentrate on was Sherlock Holmes.

A third and a fourth patient entered and went away. He could barely understand what they were saying to him.

He had sworn he wasn’t gay. He had repeated it in his mind like a mantra and he kept on doing it while other patients came and went. But his mind never ceased to tease him with images of his flatmate. Sherlock standing in that disgusting alley after chasing a burglar, his hair a bit ruffled, his pale cheeks lit up by the orange street lights. Sherlock with his striped nightgown sitting on the sofa, hands jointed, lips slightly parted, lost in his mind palace. Sherlock fixing him with his aquamarine eyes, holding his shoulders trying to make John remember some details about a killer. Those eyes, those lips, those black curls were the only thing John Watson had in mind that morning.

No matter how hard he tried to push those thoughts away, they returned stronger, brighter seconds later. 

Five hours later his shift ended and he was now outside the clinic desperately trying to clear his mind. He breathed and breathed the brisk air outside as he was trying to calm the fire burning inside him.

Sherlock was his best friend, but after that whole morning lost in thoughts he started to think that there was more inside his heart for his flatmate. Affection? Sure. He cared for the detective more than he cared for himself. Attraction? He had to admit to himself that once or twice (if he had been totally honest to himself, he would have said dozens) he had indulged in staring at Sherlock. Too much for a friend, maybe. 

He started to walk. He needed to go home, yet he had to untangle all the mess he had in his brain, so he began to walk aimlessly around the city. He couldn’t risk to go back to the detective and have still confusion inside him. He didn’t want to hurt him. 

It was the hardest thing the doctor John H. Watson had done in his life. Every step he took, it felt like he was carrying a hundred ton weight on his heart. Why was he feeling that way? The voice in his head grew suddenly stronger, as his walls crumbled: _because you love him, dumbo._

Did he? _Yes._ The voice answered.

In the same exact moment his phone buzzed from inside the coat. As soon as he took it out, he was aware of the presence of the letter inside the pocket. He read the text message.

_Get it already, doctor Watson. –MH._

What? How could Mycroft…? He sighed. Were all the Holmes brothers able to read his mind? Even when miles away? He sighed a second time. 

So was Mycroft right? _Yes._

Why didn’t he, John, notice he was in love with Sherlock? _You did, dumbo. Who else on Earth would have taken care of him so lovely? You are ready to do everything to make him happy. Had he been a female, you would have already married. You denied it._

Did he? _Obviously you did._

His heart was racing inside his chest and he was short of breath like he had run twenty miles. The voice in his head…better, the voice of his heart still answering the questions his brain was scared to.

Why did he deny it? _Because you were frightened, John._

Of what? _That he didn’t love you back._

Really? He thought about it. When they had first met, Sherlock stated he was married to his work. John at the time had been already really fascinated by the detective’s mind, but he had denied it because Sherlock had said that. And he had kept denying it. He had distracted himself with relationships he knew that couldn’t have lasted. He had buried the thought deep inside, for his sake.

But now all had changed, right? _The letter in your pocket._

He took it out and sat down on the pavement, back resting on a grating. He read it, not once, not twice, but thirty times. Passers-by coming and going, looking at him. He didn’t care. With Sherlock’s love words in front of his eyes, the whole world could have disappeared for good and he would have still been happy. Those words that had already been sculpted in his mind, now were branded with fire in his heart. The more he read the letter, the more his heart became warm, the more John Watson became happy. An unspecified amount of time later, John raised his eyes from the pieces of paper. The sun was setting and he had totally no idea what time it was. 

He got up from the pavement and took a deep breath. He loved Sherlock Holmes. The weight on his heart vanished in the evening breeze, replaced by the warm feeling of joy. There were no doubts anymore, no stupid excuses of not liking males. He didn’t like either males or females. He liked Sherlock Holmes. He loved Sherlock Holmes. He had to go home now. He had to see the detective.

He hailed a taxi. On the ride home he had one last thing to do. He took his mobile once again and texted slowly, but certain.

_Sorry, Anna. – John._

It was enough. He felt really sorry for her, he liked her. But he should’ve known where his heart belonged to when, during their first date, John had talked only about how great Sherlock was. He smirked a bit. He had been such a fool.

The taxi finally stopped at 221B Baker Street. He was actually rather nervous to face Sherlock. His fears were overwhelming his heart. What if the detective ate his words back? What if he denied to have written that letter? He closed his eyes before entering the flat.

When he opened them again, he couldn’t believe his eyes. The flat was all perfectly clean. The cleanest he had ever seen since he moved in. Sherlock was standing stiff between the kitchen and the living room. He was more nervous than John, judging by the trembling of his body and by the continuous swallowing.

“Sh-sherlock”, John was able to mutter, astonished.

“D-do you like it?”, the detective asked, his voice almost failing to come out.

“Have you done this by yourself?”

“Y-yes.”, he said blushing a bit, struggling to look John in the eyes. “I’ve cleaned every inch of the flat. Threw away all the useless boxes. And see”, he pointed at the kitchen, John approached “no equipment on the table”, he opened the fridge “no human body parts anymore in here.”

John glanced at it, but his attention was drawn more by the table set and by the delicious aroma coming from different dishes.

“And you have cooked this, too?”, he asked.

“Yes.”, now Sherlock’s voice became barely audible “For you.”

But John heard and his heart jumped in his chest, his mouth went cotton dry. Sherlock was still avoiding eye contact.

“I’ve read your letter.”, he stated.

Sherlock’s eyes moved to John, but his head was still turned away. John knew it was fear.

“I found it brilliant, and I’m extremely flattered by it, but…”

“You are not gay and you have no interest in me.”, concluded the detective, his words broken with sadness.

“No. That’s not…”, answered John immediately.

“Then what are you going to do? Are you going to leave me?”, Sherlock’s voice filled with pain.

“No, Sherlock, I didn’t mean…”

But the detective interrupted him once more.

“I don’t want your pity, John.”, he said, lowering his eyes.

John felt his heart ache at the sound of those words.

“Sherlock.”, he said again, lovingly “Look at me, please.”

Sherlock raised his eyes and the two gazes met.

“What I was saying, if you allow me, is that while I’m flattered by your letter, this cleaning, cooking, this…everything is a thousand times better, knowing you made it for me. To show me how you love me. And what I was trying to say after that…”

He approached gently to Sherlock, who had just opened his eyes wider and was holding his breath.

“Is that”, continued John, a bit unsure “I’ve surely remarked that I’m not gay a hundred times. And that’s the truth. I’ve no interest in men. But I’ve no interest in women either. ”

He stopped for a second, aware of the tension in Sherlock’s body, of the millions of thoughts spinning inside his head.

“Because, Sherlock…”, he approached a little more, so near he could feel Sherlock’s breath “I’m in love with the most extraordinary and amazing human being of the whole world. I’m in love with you.”

And he placed a sweet kiss on Sherlock’s lips. The detective froze for a second.

“R-really?”, he asked uncertain, frightened, desperate.

“Yes.”, John repeated softly.

“B-but…”

“Shhh!”, John said as he placed his index on Sherlock’s lips.

He kissed the detective again, slowly. He felt the other man shyly reciprocating it, still uncertain, trembling for the tension. He took his hands, holding them gently but firmly, to make him understand it was all ok. John sensed the other man letting himself go a bit as he did that. He started to kiss John back. It was sweet insecure kiss, full of sadness, yet full of love and promises. Then it became more intense and the detective slightly parted his lips, a moan escaping his mouth. John slid his tongue in Sherlock’s mouth and started exploring, tasting it. Sherlock’s tongue moved slowly, hesitantly. He could feel everything Sherlock had in his heart by those small, soft movements. But the detective was a fast learner and soon John’s mind went blank. Their mouths were now crashing into each other’s, languidly, desperately, passionately. Everything around John disappeared for good. He felt only the warmth of the other man’s lips pressed on his, the moans and groans escaping from their throats, his heart and head gone to heaven. Not only it was the best kiss of his life, it was the one that meant everything for him. For both of them.


	15. Of Kisses, Of Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, ladies and gentlemen, this is the last chapter!  
> Sorry for the delay, but I've been rather busy and I kept forgetting to update this, so I decided to gift you with the last two chapters in a single session! I hope you have all enjoyed it throughout and remember that I appreciated every single comment!

Sherlock broke the kiss, still trembling a bit, yet smiling now. John had dreaded that moment to come, because he knew both of them would feel quite confused. He stared at Sherlock. The detective started to laugh, all the tension in his heart coming out in that baritone laughter of his. He looked at John, happy.

“Dinner?”, he smirked.

“God, yes, I’m starving.”

They both sat at the table, unable to keep each other’s eyes off them. John giggled.

“Sherlock, if you don’t bring the food on the table, I doubt we could eat.”

“W-what? Oh, yes. Food.”

He took the toasted bread with the butter and sage sauce on it and served one to John before taking one for himself. They then ate the linguini and the veal au citron.

“Sherlock, this is just…delicious!”, John said amazed. “Have you really cooked this all alone?”

The detective nodded.

“But…you weren’t able to boil an egg until…well, I guess until one week ago. Have you practiced a lot?”

“To be honest, I haven’t been able to boil an egg until this afternoon.”

“What?”, John’s eyes wide shut “Are you telling me that you have learnt to do this in less than one day?”

Sherlock nodded again.

“Sherlock you are…amazing! Seriously. I’ll never stop telling you that!”

Sherlock blushed more than he could’ve ever imagined to be able to. He felt all his face going red.

“T-thank you”, he muttered.

John couldn’t help but smiling at the tenderness of the detective. He had never thought Sherlock was hiding such a lovely and caring soul under his high functioning sociopath status. Dreamed about it? Yes, so many times. Really thought it was the truth? Never.

When they had finished to eat tiramisu for dessert, they started to clear the table. John took the plates and washed them up, while Sherlock dried them. It felt so familiar and yet so strange at the same time, John’s heart warmed up. 

Sherlock was still feeling quite nervous. He now knew that John loved him. He was obviously in heaven for that, but he didn’t really know how those things usually worked. At one point he plucked all his courage up and turned to John.

“Can I kiss you?”, he asked softly.

“What?”, John opened his eyes in amazement “Obviously you can! You don’t have to ask for permission to do…”

The last word died on his mouth. Sherlock had leaned forward in the blink of an eye and was kissing his John again, softly and deeply, wanting that moment to last forever. Their mouths met and met again in a silent promise of love that made both the doctor and the detective overjoyed at the sensation given by the touch of each other’s lips.

One more time was Sherlock that broke the kiss. John looked at him a bit puzzled. 

“Can I taste you?”, he asked shyly blushing.

“Sherlock, you don’t have to ask me every…”

And once again John hadn’t the time to end the sentence. Sherlock was now kissing his neck avidly, licking, sucking every inch of it, every millimetre. John head stopped working. He lost his mind into Sherlock’s mouth tasting him, exploring his body. He moaned longingly in the detective’s ear and put his hands in his hair. Sherlock moaned at the touch and stopped the kissing for a second. No other human on Earth tasted as sweet as John Watson. He was sure of that. And he was also sure that he didn’t want to try any other human. He wanted John, he wanted him desperately. John was now attacking his neck with his soft, warm, wet lips. His tongue tracing Sherlock’s shape, his hands touching his black curls, then moving to the chest. Sherlock moaned. He had never thought that such a filthy moan would’ve ever escaped his mouth. But yet, all was so good, so right he didn’t mind anymore. Nothing minded. Abruptly he felt John’s hands gripping his shoulders fiercely and the man pushing him against the sink. John’s mouth reached the junction of his collarbones and his head went blank. Every noise he had in his brain ceased to exist as John started to unbutton his shirt.

Sherlock didn’t know what was going on, but he wanted it to go on. Forever if that was possible.

John couldn’t remember how they had got to the bedroom. All his head could process was him unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt, Sherlock’s hands in his hair, the vision of the detective’s head arched back. Then they were in his bedroom. How it had happened, he couldn’t figure it out. He was standing, Sherlock was sitting on the bed, shirtless. His bare chest in front of John’s eyes. Why had he lost time with those women when he had this perfection just there? He stared at other man’s chest, at his perfect alabaster skin, at his softness. A marble statue wouldn’t have been anywhere near that.

He started to take off his jumper.

“Can I?”, asked Sherlock.

John smiled at the question. He was still dubious after all. He nodded.

Sherlock stood up and slowly started to pull his jumper out, over his head, without losing eye contact. John looked in the detective’s eyes, almost completely dark, filled with lust. His lips were slightly parted and he was panting slowly on John’s mouth. John’s head went so dizzy he thought he was going to faint. As the jumper was gone, Sherlock moved to the buttons of John’s shirt.

While John had almost ripped off his friend’s white shirt, Sherlock moved slowly categorizing every inch of his doctor figure in his mind. He was adoring him, like he was some sort of Greek god. John wasn’t, in his own mind, but Sherlock thought otherwise. The sculpted muscles of his soldier’s past, the collarbones just under his skin, the beating of his heart in the middle of his chest. All this Sherlock devoured with his eyes, all this Sherlock adored. All his devotion to John Watson. Every button took him a long time, every button he placed a soft kiss on John’s chest. Finally the shirt was completely open and Sherlock indulged once more in the sight of his friend.

“You’re so beautiful…”, he didn’t know how that came out, but it was his heart speaking. He was still not used to that.

John smiled, blushing a bit.

Sherlock traced every bone, every centimetre of the doctor’s skin with his fingers, with his mouth. John shivered ecstatic at every touch. Sherlock stopped as his eyes saw John’s scar on his left shoulder.

“Did it hurt?”, he asked worried about the pain John had went through. Obviously he had been shot too and knew the pain of it, but the idea of John getting hurt, of him in pain, that was harder to bear.

“Yes, quite a lot.”, whispered John leaning forward to his ear “But now nothing hurts anymore. You’re here. We’re here.”

Sherlock kissed the scar softly, caringly. John lifted the detective’s head and cupped it in his hands. Sherlock felt the roughness of them on his soft skin and he lost himself in it. He raised his hands to cup John’s face in them, slightly stroking the other man’s cheek. John felt the silky, delicate hands of the detective on his rough skin. He placed a deep kiss on Sherlock’s mouth licking his lower lips. 

And soon they were kissing again harshly, intensely, lost in their word of love, adoration, dedication to each other, showing their possessiveness to each other.

And then they were both naked, lying in bed. Sherlock on his back, John leaned over him, caressing the detective’s body with his fingers. He sensed that he was slightly trembling under his touch.

“Is all ok, Sherlock?”

“Yes, it is…”, the detective answered, his head floating somewhere else “just I haven’t…”

But it was his time to not be able to end the sentence.

John reached his ear and placed a kiss on it, before whispering:

“Do you trust me, love?”

“Y-yes, of course.”

“Trust me in this, too.”

John moved his head down to Sherlock’s stomach and slowly went down.

“Will you always take care of me? Will you always be there for me?”, Sherlock’s voice pleading.

“I…”, John placed a kiss on Sherlock’s stomach “will…”, John placed a kiss on Sherlock’s chest “always do that.”, John placed a passionate kiss on Sherlock’s lips. 

It was all Sherlock needed to hear. He let himself go in the expert hands of his doctor.

Sherlock woke up the next morning by John’s side on his bed, resting his head on John’s left shoulder, his flatmate quietly snoring. It was all so new to him and yet it already felt perfect. He would love to wake up every single other day of his life just like that. Him and John, versus the rest of the world. His daydreaming ended as soon as the doorbell rang. It was only eight o’clock, for the heaven’s sake. John woke up at the noise.

“Morning, love.”, John said.

“Morning, John…uh, love.”, Sherlock corrected.

John couldn’t help but smiling.

“Who do you think it is?”, asked the doctor.

“I don’t know and I don’t care.”, answered Sherlock annoyed.

The doorbell rang a second time, harder.

“I’m not going to answer that!”, Sherlock yelled.

John giggled. 

“I think we should, maybe it’s a client.”

“I don’t care.”, Sherlock remarked.

They both heard the doorbell ring a third time and Mrs. Hudson’s steps to the front door. Few seconds later she was knocking on their door.

“Sherlock!”, she shouted.

“I’m going to take it.”, said John standing up. 

He put on his pants quickly and took Sherlock’s nightgown from the chair. He rushed to the door, oblivious of the fact Mrs. Hudson would have immediately guessed what had happened. He opened the door.

“I told you a hundred times I’m not your bloody hous…”, she had said before noticing John in front of her.

The landlady was now looking at him, smirking.

“Finally, John. It’s really about time.”, she teased “Didn’t want to interrupt you, boys, but there’s this for Sherlock.”

And she handled John a packet, before turning away, smiling.

“What was that?”, Sherlock appeared in the hall, wrapped in blankets.

“A packet for you, Mrs. Hudson said. Oh, look, there’s a card attached with it.”

Sherlock glanced at it. 

“It’s Mycroft’s. Lemon cake from his favourite patisserie.”, he said.

“How do you…?”, John still amazed at the detective’s deductions “Never mind.”

He took the card. Both of them reading it

There was only one word on it.

_Finally._

Yes, thought Sherlock Holmes, finally.

Yes, thought John Watson, finally.

Both smiling at each other.

It was time for happiness at 221B Baker Street.


End file.
